


Harry Potter of Baker Street

by Dayja



Series: Sherlock meets Harry Potter [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Family, Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-20
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2017-10-22 00:49:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 42,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/231816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dayja/pseuds/Dayja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes discovers family he never knew he had, and John Watson finds a child living in the cupboard.</p><p>NEW: webcomic based off this work.  Check 'notes' for details.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own/am not associated with/make no money from 'Sherlock' or 'Harry Potter'
> 
> Warning: references to child abuse, WIP
> 
> Beta/Britpicker (for first few chapters): Kulfold
> 
> NEW: Quite Exploded has started a web comic based off my story. You can find it here: http://harrypotterofbakerstreetcomic.tumblr.com/. Scroll to the bottom to find page 1. I very highly recommend readers of my story to check it out.

John Watson was used to finding the unusual when he came home.  Body parts in the fridge, poisons tucked away in former food containers, chemistry experiments bubbling and fuming on the kitchen table…this was normal and to be expected, if not encouraged.  Coming home to find a child sitting alert but silent, huddled in the cupboard where John had hoped to find the tea…that was new.

The evening had begun normally and John was halfway through his traditional greeting with Sherlock.  John asked Sherlock after his day, mostly out of self defense so he would know the little things like that the container labeled ‘sugar’ now contained arsenic, or whatever else Sherlock had decided was an appropriate substitute in the kitchen.  And then Sherlock would tell John about John’s day.  They were halfway through this greeting, when John went for the tea, which he had taken to hiding in the hopes that Sherlock wouldn’t take it upon himself to contaminate it with his experiments, and saw the child.

It was a boy, probably, judging from the dragon on his shirt, who was somewhere in the range of three or four years of age.  If that wasn’t enough, he had black hair that stuck out all over and huge green eyes that stared solemnly at the two of them with a sharp intensity.  John could hardly be blamed, therefore, when his first thought was something like, ‘oh god, he’s acquired a son.’  What he said out loud was, “Sherlock…why is there a small boy sitting in the cupboard?”

“What?”  Sherlock looked over at the boy with some surprise, as though only just realising he was there.  “Oh, right.  A man brought him while you were out.  I’m his new guardian.”

John blinked.  He looked at Sherlock.  Sherlock looked back.  John looked at the boy.  The boy watched them both, still silent and apparently unperturbed by his being left alone with a stranger.  John opened his mouth, then closed it again.  The obvious response was of course, who in their right mind would leave _you_ with a small child?  Or perhaps, why on earth did you think it appropriate to stick him in the cupboard?  What actually came out was, “So what’s his name?”  Sherlock’s forehead wrinkled up as he considered this.

“Horton?” he suggested, “Henry?”  At John’s unamused look, Sherlock gave a dismissive wave of his hand towards the mantle.  “He came with a note.  You can read it if you like.”

“I thought you said a man brought him.  Didn’t you ask any questions?”

“I was busy,” Sherlock answered defensively, “and he was a bit distracted himself.” From which John took the answer to be ‘no, I didn’t ask any questions’ even as Sherlock explained what important experiment he had been conducting.  By the time Sherlock had gotten to how the old man had been wandering around the flat and pointing his stick about while chanting, John had stopped listening.  Instead, he resigned himself to the insanity of his life and went to look at the note.   It was unexpectedly thick, not because it was long but because it was written on some kind of medieval looking parchment.  Even the writing had a bit of flair to it, done with calligraphy in emerald green ink.

‘ _Mr. Sherlock Holmes_ ,’ he read, ‘ _I do not know if you are aware, but your aunt Lily Potter née Evans and her husband James Potter died three years ago on All Hallows Eve, being murdered by a very evil man.  Their son, Harry Potter, was taken to his aunt Petunia Dursley née Evans to be raised in her family alongside her own son.  It has since come to our attention that the Dursley family is an unsuitable environment in which to leave him.  As his situation is somewhat delicate, due to the nature of his parent’s death and to a group of those who would wish the child harm, we have searched you out as his only living relative.  It is very important that young Harry be placed with family, as there is protection that can be had through your blood and there are still those out there who would wish him harm._

_We are aware that suddenly taking on a child can be a bit of a burden.   As such, a small sum amounting to five hundred pounds will be sent to you monthly to aid in his upkeep.  You can also expect social services to monitor you as you settle into your new family role.  If you do require more assistance, your brother Mycroft Holmes will know how to contact us._

_Yours Sincerely,_  
 _Albus Dumbledore_ ’

John looked up from the letter.  He frowned.  This made no sense at all.  That wasn’t how social services worked; they couldn’t just bring the boy over and drop him off, not even with the vague threat of coming back to check up on them.  Besides, Sherlock couldn’t be his only living relative.  Even if Sherlock’s parents were dead, a fact which John was naturally reluctant to ask questions about, Sherlock had an older brother who they obviously knew about as he was mentioned by name.  Perhaps they had gone to Mycroft first and Mycroft had arranged for Harry Potter to come there?  That would explain some of the unusual procedures, if not all the references to blood and people out there wanting the boy dead.  Or was this a sort of witness protection thing?

“So he’s your cousin?” John asked at last, hoping he could get at least that much verified.

“So the old man said,” Sherlock agreed. “Interesting allegation as he is apparently accusing my mother of infidelity and, from what I could gather, my grandfather of infidelity as well.  Apparently there was a son no one knew about.  I have yet to verify anything of course.”

“Do you think Mycroft would know?” John asked, watching Sherlock closely.  Sherlock appeared completely unconcerned that he might be the son of someone other than Mr. Holmes and, in fact, didn’t look particularly put out that he had been suddenly saddled with a small child.  He seemed too unconcerned.

“You are going to actually do something about Harry, right?” John asked, frowning slightly, “You do know you can’t just leave him sitting in the cupboard for the rest of his life?”

“Of course not,” Sherlock answered, “I’ve already texted Mycroft.”  Sherlock still wasn’t looking towards either of them and for the first time it occurred to John that maybe Sherlock was a bit freaked out over this after all.  He was so out of his depth he didn’t even begin to know how to respond.  So, being Sherlock, he ignored the issue and pretended it wasn’t there.  Still feeling a bit shell-shocked himself, John decided it was time to face the issue head on.  He approached the child, kneeling awkwardly on the ground to be closer to his level.  The boy stared, unmoving.

“Hello,” John said.  The boy stared.  “I’m John.  What’s your name?”  The boy stared.  Then his mouth moved and sound came out, almost too quiet to be understood.  If John hadn’t already read what his name was, he might have thought the boy said something like ‘Ree Pot’.

“Hello, Harry,” John said and gently offered his hand to be shaken.  Harry took it hesitantly and smiled shyly.  John found himself smiling back.

“Do you know where you are, Harry?” John asked.  The boy had to be a bit confused, being thrust into this new environment and left in the care of a man who had apparently been ignoring him for who knows how long.  Cautiously, Harry nodded his head.

“Mr. Sherlock is my new uncle,” he declared.  Then, slowly crawling towards John, he asked, “Are you my new uncle, too?”

“If you want,” John answered, a bit cautiously himself, because he still wasn’t entirely sure they were really going to keep the little boy who had been more or less dropped on their doorstep.  John could not honestly believe that Sherlock was nearly responsible enough to look after a little boy; surely someone would realise that soon and take him away.  Still, he couldn’t say no when Harry looked so hopeful.  Suddenly, Harry’s stomach growled.

“Are you hungry, Harry?” John asked, smiling at him.  To his surprise, the little boy’s eyes teared up.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, huddling in on himself back into the space he had just crawled from.

“It’s no problem at all,” John told him, “I’m a bit hungry myself.  Why don’t we…” he started to say something like ‘make sandwiches’ until he considered the disaster that was the kitchen, and abruptly changed to, “go out?”  Harry’s eyes grew huge.

“Go out to eat?” he asked.  “At a real outside eating place?”

“Er…at a real restaurant, yes,” John agreed.  Harry smiled hugely at him.  “Alright then, we just need your coat…”  He turned to look at Sherlock again and asked, “He does have a coat?”

“I think so,” Sherlock answered, staring at the two of them with an expression John couldn’t read, “There is a bag over there.”  John looked and found a cloth sack, over which was draped not only Harry’s coat but his gloves, hat, and scarf as well.  

“Okay then, Harry, let’s get you dressed,” John announced, and started helping him to bundle up.  Sherlock watched.  John went to get his own coat and then paused, turning back to Sherlock.

“You are coming,” John said, not making it a question, though Sherlock answered with, “Of course, John.  I was feeling a bit hungry myself.”

The experience of dining out felt a bit surreal; the entire evening felt surreal.  He half expected to wake up and discover he was having a bizarre dream in which Sherlock had actually been entrusted with the welfare of a small child.

To Sherlock’s utter disgust and Harry’s glowing adoration, John took them to McDonalds.  Sherlock refused to order anything, despite his earlier divulgence that he was hungry.

“You do know this particular chain keeps their cattle in fields created by the destruction of the rain forest,” he muttered, as though that were something that deeply concerned him, when John knew for a fact that the only reason he knew that bit of trivia was that Molly had brought it up once in an ill advised attempt at conversation in the morgue.  Then Sherlock went on to talk about mad cow disease, earning more than one annoyed look from the other customers in the line.  Harry looked concerned.

“We’ll get you the chicken nuggets,” John told him, and then gave Sherlock a very stern look before he could explain everything that was wrong with _them_.  Sherlock, thankfully, was silent on the matter.  Though he still refused to order.

John took Harry out to the play set in the back of the restaurant, agreeing to hold onto his shoes because Harry obviously felt nervous of leaving them behind unwatched.  He seemed reluctant overall to play on it, a bit overawed by the tubes and balls, but John eventually convinced him to try it.  Thankfully.  Because part of the entire idea behind bringing Harry here was to be able to talk to Sherlock without Harry overhearing.

“Sherlock,” John said, “What are you going to do with him?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Sherlock answered and the sad part was he really didn’t seem to understand.  John sighed.

“Small children take work,” he said, “They need love and attention and discipline.  And he will be yours, not mine or Mrs. Hudson’s, even if we can help out.  Are you going to be able to handle that?”

“The old man seemed very convinced I could,” Sherlock said.  “He seemed to think there was nowhere else he could go.”  Which didn’t answer the question at all of course, but did remind John of others he had.

“You do know this is weird?” John asked.  “Old men do not usually drop of little boys without any warning, even if you are family.  Especially as the home he was in before was deemed unacceptable.”

“Which is why I texted Mycroft,” Sherlock answered, staring thoughtfully over to where Harry sat in the ball pit, holding a single ball and staring at it while other children jumped and laughed and screamed around him.  “Do you think I get to name him?”

“He has a name,” John reminded him, a bit warily.

“But you said he was mine.  The old man said he was mine.  And Harry is a boring name.  Besides, won’t you get confused?”

“I think I can deal with knowing two people called ‘Harry’,” John answered dryly.  He had certainly coped over the years with sharing his own name with half a dozen of his peers at a time.

“Still…” Sherlock answered, still looking thoughtful.

“So you do intend to keep him, then?” John asked, looking hard at his friend, “You do know if you do, you can’t abandon him when he becomes boring.”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock answered, suddenly looking at John with a lost expression, “but they said there isn’t anywhere else.  You know about children.”

“Yes,” John agreed slowly, “but I’m just your flatmate.  I won’t be his parent.  Guardian.  Whatever.”

“You agreed to be his uncle.  I heard you.”

“That’s not the same thing, Sherlock,” John answered, “I’m serious.  What will you do when you have a case?  What about all your experiments?”

“What about them?” Sherlock asked, looking genuinely confused.

“You can’t have poisons and dangerous chemicals sitting out with a small child in the house!  And you can’t rush off and leave him alone at all hours…and no, you can’t take a child to crime scenes.”  Sherlock slowly closed his mouth, frowning petulantly. “For that matter, where is he going to sleep?”

“The old man said he had been sleeping in the cupboard under the stairs.”  
John opened his mouth.  Closed it.  Sucked in a deep breath and let it out again, slowly.

“Please tell me you were not planning on emulating his former guardians?”

“Well…it did seem a bit odd…but if he’s used to…”

“No, Sherlock!” John cried, his voice firm and slightly aghast, “He was taken away from them, because keeping a child under the stairs is bad.”

“Right,” Sherlock said slowly, watching John carefully, “So you wouldn’t object to him having a room.  With a bed.  Not a cupboard.”

“Of course he should have a…” John trailed off from his righteous indignation at how a child had been treated and looked at Sherlock suspiciously.  “Sherlock.  What bed did you intend to give him?”

“Well, he can’t have my bed.  My room is filled with all those dangerous things you were saying he couldn’t have.  So I thought…”

“No.”

“You could share.  He’s small; he wouldn’t take up much space.”

“He’s getting his own room,” John insisted firmly, “One that isn’t already taken.”  Sherlock sighed.

“Don’t be ridiculous, John.  Sleeping on the sofa would be horrible for your shoulder.”

“He’s not getting my room,” John said.  Sherlock looked at him.  John stared stubbornly back.

“Oh, alright,” Sherlock finally said, and John almost relaxed until Sherlock continued with, “You can share my room if you like.  Just mind the experiments.  And I do hope you don’t kick too much in bed.”

John stared, finding so many things wrong with that scenario that he didn’t even begin to know where to correct Sherlock in his new assumptions.  John opened his mouth.  Sherlock watched him, smiling pleasantly because he had found the perfect solution to all their problems.  John closed his mouth again.  He laid his head down on the table and groaned.

“Isn’t that rather unhygienic?” Sherlock asked helpfully, eyeing the plastic table with disgust.  John’s answer was to groan again.

Then their order was finally called and Harry was retrieved from the ball pit, so that was the end of the discussion.

Sherlock, despite his declared disgust with the entire establishment, still stole half the fries.

That night, John did sleep in Sherlock’s bed.  But he made Sherlock sleep on the sofa.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Mycroft Holmes could generally be displaced from his morning routine for only two reasons. The first was for his government, and even then it had to be a truly epic disaster that required a very personal touch. The second was his baby brother. Half-brother as it had turned out, though Mycroft had long suspected that, and their father had certainly been suspicious, behaving much colder to the younger Holmes than he had ever been with Mycroft. And of course his baby brother would turn out to be the cousin of one of the most famous inhabitants of the magical world.

Mycroft hated dealing with the magical world. To be fair, the magical world hated dealing with Mycroft. For one thing, he was _protected_. And because he was, it fell to him to sort out many annoyances which arose when a group of British citizens decided to hang onto a medieval outlook and, cult-like, attempt to separate themselves, their prejudices, and their problems from the rest of the country. In short, they behaved as though the majority of the rest of the world didn't exist and then were surprised when they created madmen who wanted to make it into a fact.

Mycroft had thought he was done with the drama of their latest insane creation three years ago when he was informed that Flight of Death, or whatever the megalomaniac deigned to call himself, had in fact succumbed to death. And then Albus Dumbledore, another of the magical world's madmen, but at least a madman who had never tried to test Mycroft's _protection_ , had come to him with the child savior and informed him that it has come to his attention that the infant was kind of a relative…in a sideways sort of way if one took it that one's brother's cousin must also be one's own.

Mycroft had commiserated that the boy's aunt and uncle had turned out rather unsuitable, but pointed out that his brother was not the best candidate for a replacement. The old man explained, in detail, about blood wards and how Harry's mum saved him and could keep on saving him, and then asked quite pointedly if Sherlock would hate the child or purposefully abuse him. And Mycroft had to admit that, despite his brother's claim to being a sociopath, he had never known Sherlock to go out of his way to hurt anyone or anything. He was even known to be kind to animals when he thought no one was around to see.

So Harry Potter was brought to meet his cousin for the first time and Mycroft set about behind the scenes to make sure that both his brother and his new little dark lord target would be safe, blood wards or no blood wards. He knew the boy had been delivered when he received a somewhat frantic text from Sherlock, but he was far too busy to do anything about it. Sherlock had John to help, after all.

It had taken some finagling, and it involved breaking his morning routine, but as this involved both the government and his baby brother it was justified. The longer he left it off, the longer his brother was left with just some old man's assurance of magic and blood wards for protection.

He arrived at Baker Street quite early and rather hoped, but doubted, that there might be something reasonable for breakfast. At the very least, since John was sure to be there, there ought to be some serviceable tea.

Sherlock opened the door almost before he rang, something slightly desperate in his expression though most would probably read it as merely interested.

"Mycroft…" Sherlock began, his tone implying a greeting, but he was interrupted by a half panicked cry of, "Sherlock!" from above. Mycroft raised an eyebrow at his brother. Surely he hadn't already managed to kill the child? His concern was put to rest however, when John appeared at the top of the stairs. He held a pan of what smelled like bacon in one hand and with his other arm he held the boy, who in turn was holding a spatula in one hand and had an oven mitt on the other. The boy looked rather surprised.

"Sherlock, why was Harry cooking breakfast?" John demanded.

"He offered," Sherlock answered, his tone perfectly reasonable. Mycroft began to reassess Sherlock's ability to watch a child. Perhaps he should have told the old man that Harry would have a better chance being raised by another dark madman.

"He was standing on three stacked books on top of a chair just to reach the grill!" John exclaimed. Sherlock continued to look confused. John closed his eyes and took a deep breath before opening them again. Finally, in a stern voice, he said, "Four year olds are not allowed near the grill."

"Aren't they?" Sherlock asked, and he looked at Harry, "Are you not allowed to cook? You said you could." Harry looked like he was about to cry. With a sigh, John gave up on Sherlock for the moment and finally acknowledged Mycroft instead.

"I suppose you know what is going on, here?" he asked, "Well, come on up. We're having bacon, apparently." And he marched back into the upstairs room, frying pan and child in tow.

Breakfast turned out to be rather good in the end, if a bit tense. The bacon had not been ruined, despite its rather abrupt removal and then return to the fire, and there was toast with jam and tea as well. It was set out in the living room because the table was covered in chemicals and papers.

"Alright, brother mine," Sherlock said from his position half lounging in his chair, "What have you come to tell us about my young cousin?"

"Really, Sherlock, I don't think this is the conversation to have in front of the child." And he looked hopefully at John to take him away. John stared obstinately back and made no move to rise.

"I would like to know who thought Sherlock capable of watching a small child, yes," he said. Giving up on the doctor for the moment, Mycroft swiftly thought of a suitable alternative.

"You have an elderly landlady, do you not?"

"Away," John answered briefly. With a sigh, Mycroft pulled out his phone and sent a message. Within a minute, a young woman walked into the room.

"This is my brother's cousin, Harry Potter. Take him...take him shopping, I suppose. Away from here." She smiled blandly at him with a look that promised retribution and offered the child her hand.

"Go on, Harry," John encouraged him and Harry allowed himself to be led away. The three men sat in silence, one contemplating how to start, one contemplating whether ignoring the situation would improve it, and one still wondering if he might be dreaming the entire affair. Mycroft decided to start with the basics.

"What is your opinion on the subject of magic?" He received two blank stares in reply.

"What…like stage magic?" John asked, sounding slightly hopeful that that was exactly what Mycroft meant, rather than, perhaps, that Sherlock's brother was insane.

"Do you mean glutinium energy?" Sherlock asked, looking rather bored though the gleam in his eyes betrayed his interest, "Because calling it magic simply for its psionic properties is rather unscientific, don't you think?"

"The practitioners call it magic," Mycroft pointed out, frowning with what was most certainly not disappointment that his brother had, in fact, already somehow learned something of the magical world.

"The practitioners also insist upon using quills rather than ballpoints, let alone type," Sherlock pointed out in a bored tone, "What is the point to this? I suppose young Harry is one of those who are glutinium sensitive?"

"Sorry…glutinium? Magic? What exactly are we talking about here?" John demanded, and Mycroft felt what he would utterly deny to be glee that at least one of the two could be introduced to the secret lying just beneath the surface of regular society.

"We are speaking of a community of people who are capable of welding what they refer to as magic and what modern science knows as glutinium energy, or at least so it is known to those scientists who have knowledge of its existence in the first place," Mycroft said, a slight smile barely gracing his face, "Have you heard of the theory that all matter within the universe is connected? And of course you know the concept of an electrical field…glutinium comes from the Latin word glutinum, meaning glue. In essence, it is the energy that binds existence together. Some humans are sensitive to the energy and so able to guide it and perform acts which appear on the surface to be impossible. What's more, it is possible to create mnemonic pathways within the energy field, so that saying the same words to the same motions will create the expected effect with very little effort or even knowledge as to what one is attempting in the first place."

John stared at him. Really, it might be much easier to convince him if Mycroft could actually perform magic himself. Sherlock appeared uninterested.

"I am curious, brother, how you came to learn of magic," Mycroft said, and as expected Sherlock perked up at the chance to reveal his own brilliance.

"The 'magic' users hardly work to keep it a secret, do they?" Sherlock asked, "If anyone ever bothered to really look and pay attention, it's obvious that seemingly illogical occurrences take place regularly. But the day I truly took note was in the chemistry lab. I saw a man with a rather…unusual mixture and explored."

"Chemistry. Of course. Well, doctor, what do you think?"

"Alright…fine, yes. Magic…exists. What does this have to do with Harry?" Mycroft peered at John. He didn't look convinced, but perhaps he was right and it was time to get to the point.

The story behind Harry Potter was rather long and complex, starting with 'yes, magic exists, no really, no, really really, it does' and then gets a bit technical but it all boils down to genetic imprints. Sherlock Holmes's DNA is just close enough to that of Lily Potter's that something rather technical is able to use it to keep them all safe. Mycroft attempts to explain. At the end, John stares at him blankly. Mycroft waits for questions on legal issues or more probing questions into Sherlock's family or even how Sherlock was traced in the first place. John continues to stare at him blankly.

"So…this magic thing is real then?"

Mycroft finds himself hard put not to react by slamming his face into the palms of his hands.

"The old man explained all that," Sherlock said, still attempting to look bored even though Mycroft was quite sure he wasn't. "So why are you here?"

"I can't have come to visit my brother and see my new…nephew?" Mycroft asked, hesitating only a moment on what to call Harry's relation to himself. Sherlock didn't take the bait but only gave him a pointed look and waited. With a sigh, Mycroft passed a folder over towards John and then reached over while they were distracted and suddenly jabbed a syringe into each of their thighs.

John yelped and dropped the folder and Sherlock gave a very undignified squawk before sending him a vicious look, as though he had just been injected with a poison.

"What was that?"

"That was what essentially amounts to a small shaving from the talisman I am about to deliver to each of you." And a small tracking device, but they didn't need to know that. "Should you somehow lose the talisman, you should still have at least some of its protection."

"And what is this talisman?" Sherlock demanded. John glared suspiciously. Mycroft sighed and adopted his storytelling pose once more.

"Sometime in the annals of history, when those with magic and those without once lived side by side without secrets, it occurred to somebody that having a government which couldn't be swayed by the whim of any madman with a stick might be a good thing. According to the story, it was King Arthur with the help of Merlin who first created the idea and then, more Merlin than Arthur, the necessary talismans which could ensure such protection. Faeries were involved in this somewhere."

Both Sherlock and John looked at him skeptically. Mycroft pulled a small box from his pocket.

"I have my doubts as to the verity of their origins, but the talismans are very real. So to continue on, as the magical world removed itself into secrecy, those to whom the talismans were bequeathed also settled into a world of secrets. So the royal family had some, but the prime minister didn't. And various non-magical subjects who are deemed at risk to magical influences are allowed one as well."

"Which includes yourself, I suppose?" Sherlock said, "And now John and I? However did you manage that?"

"You are the guardian to the boy who lived," Mycroft pointed out.

" _I_ am," Sherlock answered, "You said you got one for John as well, a person who is neither an agent of the government nor guardian to…ah."

"Ah what?" John asked though he wasn't truly paying attention to them anymore. He had opened the folder at last, perhaps hoping to find something to explain the madness, and was glancing through a few of the official documents such as Harry's birth certificate, more official papers, guardianship papers, a civic union certificate, more guardianship…he paused and went back. He looked up with an expression that was a bit too blank.

"This says we're married."

"Yes."

"Since a month ago. It has my signature on it."

"Yes. Congratulations."

"Why did you marry us?" John asked after a moment of tense silence, his voice sounding rather as though he were speaking through clenched teeth. Sherlock, somewhat surprisingly, hadn't said anything and was merely waiting to see how things played out. Interesting.

"It was the only way to procure a talisman for both of you," Mycroft said in his most reasonable tone. John stared at him. Sherlock looked thoughtful.

"Does this mean Horton…"

"Harry,"

"…Harry belongs to both of us?"

"You are both named as guardians, yes, though your blood is the important part. I suppose I can always acquire a nanny if you don't think you are up to it?"

"I like women." Mycroft looked at John, somewhat concerned about his blank expression. Somehow, Mycroft doubted he was stating his preference of a nanny. He considered how to reply to such a statement.

"Er…yes…congratulations?"

"I can't go out on dates if I'm essentially married to my flat mate. A man."

"It would certainly set a bad example for our son, don't you think?" Sherlock agreed in a perfectly reasonable tone. John made an inarticulate noise. Mycroft began to wonder if the man was truly stable enough for the task given, but allowed that perhaps suddenly becoming a father, and married, was cause enough to need time for adjustment. He made a mental note to look into nannies quite soon.

"Here are your talismans," Mycroft said, deciding that he had already covered the important basics, "With these no magical…"

"Glutinic,"

"… _magical_ force can touch you, either to cause harm or alter your thoughts or perceptions. Do not take them off, ever. And really, Sherlock, do try to leave them unharmed. They're antiques."

"Of course, dear brother," Sherlock answered, his hands twitching with eagerness as he took what appeared to be a small rune covered stone on a short chain. Obviously he intended to start experiments on his the moment Mycroft's back was turn.

"They should be generally unnoticeable once on, and unable to be removed except by yourself or upon your death." His stern glare forbade either of those events from happening. Sherlock smiled at him and gave him his best I'm-behaving-perfectly-like-a-little-angel look as he put his around his neck. While the chain had looked almost too short to allow it, once on the chain had lengthened to the point that Sherlock could easily tuck it away beneath his shirt. Mycroft made another mental note to up the surveillance in the house, and make sure the nanny had a background in treating injuries as well as basic battle training.

"So…this is magic?" John asked, studying his talisman. Mycroft made another mental note that someone be sent around for basic magical demonstrations soon so that John could get this belief system crisis over with and properly acknowledge the dangers his brother and cousin now faced. He continued to give the doctor a pointed look until the man sighed and slipped his own talisman around his neck. Then Mycroft stood.

"Well, I trust you have your questions answered. My assistant should return your ward to you soon with the shopping." John, contrary to custom, made no move to stand or show him out. Mycroft accepted the lapse in manners and hoped that his own brother wasn't rubbing off on him; he had rather hoped it would go the other way around. Sherlock, he noted, also made no move to either thank him or see him to the door. "I'll show myself out."

"Yes, see that you do," Sherlock said, his tone distracted. He was studying his talisman again. John was looking at the folder of papers, seeming preoccupied with the civic union certificate. Mycroft wasn't sure why the doctor insisted on obsessing over it, when there were bigger issues such as John's joint custody of a child and the revelations of a magical world. Still, he had done what he had come to do; Sherlock, the boy, and his flat mate would be protected, and the government would stop pestering him over the entire affair. He let himself out the door.

He hoped his assistant would not be too long with the boy; he did need her and the newlyweds really should get to know their son.

Author's Note: Normally, I would let my text speak for itself, but I feel it important to say at this time that there will be no explicit Sherlock/John couple in this story. I might decide to let it develop into a relationship (in the far distant, nowhere near now future), but it would probably be understated, and they are not at this time going to be a couple. Mostly because I find it much more amusing for them to be thrust into this situation while not being a couple. And there's no real reason they have to be; best friends is not necessarily less of a bond than lovers, and I might simply leave it with Sherlock being just as asexual as he is generally depicted in the books, and John completely heterosexual but putting his family first. The story isn't about any kind of shipping anyway, it's about family and the unexpected trials of becoming parents/guardians to a small boy.


	3. Harry Potter of Baker Street Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Sherlock's method of informing Mrs. Hudson about her newest resident was to tell her he wanted to rent out 221c. As blunt as ever, this news was passed as Mrs. Hudson walked into the hall to see him carrying yet another box of experiments down the stairs.

"Did you and John have a falling out?" was the only thing the confused woman could think to ask, a look of concern coming over her features.

"No, of course not," Sherlock answered, "It's only one of John's new rules. Four year olds are not to have access to chemicals, body parts, glass, or flames."

"Four year olds?"

"Oh, yes. I have become guardian to my cousin. Anyway, John insists these experiments be moved, and he refused to have them in our bedroom."

"Bedroom?"

"Sherry needed his own room, of course."

Mrs. Hudson was quite ecstatic to meet young Harry Potter. After all, a child was something the married ones next door didn't have. John and Sherlock were quite pleased that they meet as well; Mycroft still hadn't sent the promised nanny, and John did not feel comfortable leaving Harry alone with only Sherlock to watch him in spite of the list of rules he had pinned to the wall.

"This is Sherrinford," Sherlock said as he led Mrs. Hudson to what used to be John's bedroom, "We call him Sherry. Sherry, say hello to Mrs. Hudson."

"Harry," John said, luckily arriving just in time to save Harry from Sherlock's latest attempt to give him a new name.

"No, it's alright," Sherlock insisted, "I read about it. Sherry is almost like Harry, and if you keep at it, he'll learn to come when he hears his name."

"…that's for puppies, Sherlock." Sherlock gave him that blank stare that said he didn't get where the problem was. John gave up for the moment, turning to Mrs. Hudson. "This is Harry Potter. Harry, can you say hello to Mrs. Hudson?"

"Hi," Harry answered dutifully despite his stare of uncertainty at this new stranger.

"Hello, Harry," Mrs. Hudson said, "I'm pleased to have you here." And then unable to resist the little boy any longer, she scooped him up with a squeal of excitement. Harry let Mrs. Hudson hug him, looking with some concern towards his guardians. The look was so Sherlock when confronted with a social situation he didn't understand that John gave the boy the usual encouraging smile without thinking. Harry smiled tentatively in return.

"It will be nice having a child about the place," Mrs. Hudson said enthusiastically, "One that is acting his age." She gave a sharp look towards Sherlock which the man completely missed as he was currently studying Harry's new toys with an odd intensity. Not that Harry had much at the moment, just a few bears and some crayons, though even that had seemed to overwhelm the small boy. The room itself was still furnished for a grown man, something John knew would have to be changed soon.

"Come along, Harry, you can help me back a cake." Harry looked at John again, appearing worried. John offered the smile again.

"You can cook with Mrs. Hudson," he said, guessing the difficulty. Harry still looked confused but allowed himself to be led away. Sherlock frowned.

"You said four year olds are not allowed to cook. It's the first rule."

"Helping Mrs. Hudson cook is not the same thing as cooking himself," John answered, "Mrs. Hudson won't let him do any of the dangerous parts." Sherlock looked thoughtful.

Harry Watson learned because John finally gave in and called her. Explaining the delicate intricacies of the matter when his sister was already half convinced there was some sort of relationship between him and Sherlock had been difficult, especially when she visited in person to meet her nephew and noticed their sleeping arrangements. Luckily, she was more concerned with the state of the flat and her new nephew's bedroom, the lack of toys in particular.

"The bed is far too big for him," was one of the first things she noted, and quite true though Harry never seemed to have much trouble climbing in or out; he hadn't even succumbed to the temptation all small children face when presented with a large bed and jumped on it yet.

"Harry is good at climbing," was all John said, "We're working on it. We've only had him a week."

"A week! I've had a nephew for an entire week, and you're only just now telling me?"

There was an awkward silence during which John pointedly did not say why he might have wanted to wait so long to contact his sister, and she even more pointedly didn't ask, in spite of the look she sent him.

"So where is my nephew with the fantastic name, then?" Harry asked at last.

"With Sherlock," John answered, still cringing slightly at the idea, "Mrs. Hudson says they've gone to the park." Mrs. Hudson, for reasons John still didn't completely understand, had no difficulty with the idea of Sherlock being a responsible parent, and had apparently given the suggestion before shoving them out the door. She thought it would be good for both of them. John's hope was more along the lines that Sherlock didn't become distracted and leave the boy at the park.

"Well I hope they're back soon, I want to meet him!" She had even brought a present for the occasion. It was almost at that very moment that a door slammed open below.

"I do not see the point of the excursion, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock declared, his voice carrying all the way up to where John and Harry still stood in young Harry's room, "Neither Lockson nor myself found any enjoyment in that place."

"Oh, Harry," they heard Mrs. Hudson reply, not so much because her voice carried as because they had moved to join them below, "Didn't you like playing in the park?"

Harry made no answer at all, or none that could be heard from the stairs.

"There were far too many ruffians running about the place," Sherlock declared for him, "And quite a few overly forward mothers." At that, Harry Watson laughed out loud and John managed a smile at the mental image of Sherlock being besieged by single mothers at the park. Sherlock and Harry looked up at the sound and Sherlock frowned briefly before taking on a smile that was far too innocent to be anything but evil.

"I, of course, was forced to inform them that I was already married."

In the end, John's sister did leave off teasing him in favor of getting to know her new nephew and presenting him with his gift. The boy appeared dubious about getting to know her but at both John and Sherlock's encouragement, he allowed her to fuss over him a bit and even smiled quite naturally when presented with the stuffed rabbit. He inspected it intensely before carrying it reverently to be placed in the row where his other animals were kept.

Harry Watson finally did leave, after reminding them again that she wouldn't mind playing babysitter from time to time, that the child's room needed serious work, that the boy himself was in dire need of spoiling, and a final admonishment directed at Sherlock that the name Harry was one of the most awesome in creation, and if he didn't leave off trying to change it she was going to take to calling _him_ Sheldon.

Harry Potter had been with them for one week. Quite suddenly, John's legs felt a bit watery, and the lists in his head of things that needed to be done became just the slightest bit more solid; lists that not only needed to be done but would be done in the very near future.

"John?" Sherlock asked from suddenly quite close by, "Are you alright?"

"He's really ours, isn't he?" John asked.

"Ah."

"He's ours, forever and ever, and he will get older and older and bigger, and it's all down to us that he makes it to quite big without being killed or becoming a psychopath himself, and he needs doctors and toys and schooling and friends and help, and oh, God…"

"Breathe, John." Sherlock was looking quite concerned now, guiding the other man to sit down on the sofa.

"Sherlock? Why aren't you scared? Why aren't you terrified?" To this Sherlock's face was unreadable and it took the man a moment to answer. John was a bit afraid of the answer in fact, that the answer was something like 'because I don't care about the boy, really' or something equally cold and sociopathic, except that was unfair because Sherlock wasn't really like that and John knew it. When Sherlock finally did answer, it was nothing that he expected.

"Because I have you, John. You won't let me ruin him."

Neither spoke for a long moment after that, but the silence was far less charged and far more introspective than before, and John slowly felt his heart rate returning to normal.

"Right. We need to do some shopping tomorrow."

Nothing more was said on the matter, but from that moment John was no longer quite so scared to leave Harry alone in Sherlock's company. At least for a short while. John was convinced of Sherlock's good intentions, not brain dead.


	4. Harry Potter of Baker Street Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4

Chapter 4

"Who let _you_ have a small child? Did he kidnap you, sweetheart?" Harry hid his face in the crook of Sherlock's neck, one single eye peeking out alight with curiosity.

"Sergeant Sally Donovan, meet my cousin, Sherry Holmes." 'Sherry' let out a soft giggle but didn't stop hiding while Donovan stared at the pair.

"Sherlock, you're here! We've got…who is this?" Lestrade stopped up short, his professional, grim attitude that spoke of a particularly unpleasant murder scene dropping right off his face in his surprise.

"This is Sherry Holmes," Sherlock answered, and Harry giggled again. "Sherry, meet Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"Pleased to meet you," Lestrade said, his features gentling slightly in the face of the little boy and he offered his hand. Harry smiled at him but didn't take the hand, choosing to shift in Sherlock's hold instead, still hiding in the nape of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock frowned slightly but Lestrade was not put out in the slightest. Lestrade's expression did change slightly as he moved his attention from the child to the man.

"Sherlock, you cannot bring the boy into the crime scene."

"Of course not," Sherlock answered, using his free hand to pull a small, laminated bit of paper from his pocket, "John told me. Rule number six, Harry is not to be taken to crime scenes no matter what, nor to stake outs, nor on chases, not even if they would be good learning experiences."

"Then why is he here?" Lestrade asked, his question coming over Donovan's softer 'I thought he was called Sherry'.

"Rule number two, Harry is not to be left alone no matter what and he is not to be left behind. John is at work and Mrs. Hudson is out, so Sherry is with me. I will, of course, leave him 'near' the crime scene rather than take him to it. I'm sure London's finest should be adequate to watch a child for a short while."

"We aren't your babysitters," Donovan protested, "A child doesn't belong here. I can't even imagine that anyone would let some poor child…"

"Sergeant Donovan," Lestrade interrupted, his voice soft but severe and she stopped talking to look at him. He gave her a look.

"Sir," she said, her tone quietly furious, "I don't think it's appropriate…"

"Please watch…Harry?... for the time it takes us to look over the crime scene," Lestrade said, his voice still soft but brooking no argument. Sherlock looked smug as Donovan silently conceded to his authority, though the look she sent Lestrade was positively vicious.

"Alright, Sherry," Sherlock said, lowering Harry to the ground, "Stay with Sally. I will return soon." Harry looked up at him with obvious reluctance and trepidation over this turn of events.

"You must stay, Uncle John's rules say so. Stay. Good boy." And with a final pat on his head, Sherlock gently pushed him in the general direction of Sgt Donovan before turning away and following a rather bemused Lestrade to the scene. Behind them, Donovan was saying, "Come along, sweetheart, you can tell me all about living with 'Uncle John' and Sherlock."

Lestrade allowed Sherlock his initial investigation before giving in to his natural curiosity (and perhaps just a hint of hurt) to say, "You never mentioned having a son."

"Cousin, actually. And I didn't know before two weeks ago."

"I suppose Dr. Watson has been helping out, then?" Sherlock paused in his analyzing of blood spatters to finally take notice of the DI's attempts at prying.

"He's Sherry's second guardian, yes," and then in a bland tone he continued with, "Would you like to come over and meet him?"

"Yes, actually, I rather would like that. I know you don't exactly consider us friends, but…"

"I don't have any friends."

"…I still feel…what do you mean you don't have any friends? What about John?"

"He…doesn't count. Besides, he's my husband, not my friend."

Lestrade hadn't been drinking tea at that moment, but he still choked a bit all the same. Sherlock didn't seem to notice, absorbed once more in the bodies and blood splatters.

Finally, Sherlock declared the scene boring, not worth his time, and that the woman's husband was the culprit upon finding her with her lover ('Obviously, you can tell by the wedding band, the killer left it on the floor, not her finger') and left, well within fifteen minutes. Harry was standing almost where he had been left and Donovan had apparently given up questioning him because both were silent. Harry's uncertain expression changed to a smile when he saw Sherlock returning.

"You stayed. Good boy," Sherlock said, patting the boy once more on the head before pulling a small biscuit from his pocket and giving it to him. Lestrade and Donovan stared. Sherlock stared at them blankly, paused to pull the laminated paper from his pocket and glanced over it, before looking up again. "Problem?" he asked at last in a carefully cheerful manner.

"That child doesn't say a word," Donovan declared, "Have you done something…"

"He can speak. He simply doesn't want to talk to you," Sherlock answered, appearing smug once more. Harry watched them silently, eating his biscuit.

"Sgt Donovan…" Lestrade started, reproach in his tone.

"I'm serious! I'm not sure it's safe letting him have a small child!" Donovan insisted.

"Sgt Donovan," Lestrade repeated, his voice colder, and she backed down, though not without one last vicious look.

"Freak."

"Not freak!" a completely unexpected voice shrieked from the vicinity of their knees and Sally Donovan received a sharp kick to her shin before the small boy responsible retreated to behind Sherlock's legs and beneath his coat, glaring fiercely from his hiding place. Sherlock looked as surprised as anyone. Donovan hesitated a moment, somewhere between apologizing and glaring some more at Sherlock before she finally retreated and left them. Sherlock and Lestrade stood silent and a bit shocked, before Lestrade remembered that he did indeed have a crime scene to look after.

"I'll be coming over soon, to meet your cousin properly," Lestrade said at last, giving the little boy one last smile before stalking off. Sherlock leaned down and twisted himself awkwardly in an attempt to look at the tiny being clinging to his knees.

"Not freak," Harry repeated, and then, "Sorry, sorry," And he burst into tears. Awkwardly, Sherlock managed to untangle the sobbing boy from his legs to pick him up.

"It's alright," he tried, and when Harry continued to sob, clinging tightly now around his neck, he tried patting the boys back and saying, "There, there." Finally, when it was quite obvious the boy was not going to be comforted, he gave up. They would have to get John.

By the time they entered the waiting room, Harry's sobs had gotten quieter but not ceased completely, and nor had his grip on Sherlock. Sherlock continued to occasionally pat the boy's back or offer another 'there, there'. The receptionist looked quite sympathetic as he walked in. He told her at once that he needed to see John and she smiled in a kind manner, asking if he had an appointment. When she started trying to thrust forms upon him, Sherlock finally realized there was a mistake in her understanding of the situation.

"I'm not here for a medical appointment," he explained at last, "John is my husband."

"Oh," she said, looking a bit disconcerted but telling him to take a seat. There were a few other patients sitting in the chairs, some giving sympathetic looks but others appearing rather annoyed at the presence of the crying child. Sherlock resisted the urge to go find John himself, more because he didn't want John angry with him; John was already certain to not be pleased with his taking Harry near a crime scene, or the fact that Sherlock was so inept at this parenting thing that he couldn't make the child stop crying on his own. Feeling a bit lost, and empty, and hoping that John would hurry up and be there even if he did turn out to be angry, Sherlock finally did take a seat next to an older woman who didn't appear to be carrying too many sick germs and who hadn't expressed annoyance at their presence.

Unfortunately, she also turned out to be not the type to keep to herself, because she immediately turned to them with a look of extreme sympathy.

"Poor little dear. Is he sick?"

"I don't think so," Sherlock answered, frowning at the thought, "He just keeps crying."

"Poor dear," the woman said again, and then, "You might try rocking him. I used to rock my Henry when he fussed like that, and he would quiet right down and go to sleep."

"You think so?" Sherlock asked, and he left of back patting to try swaying.

"Sometimes I'd have to sing him a lullaby," the old woman continued helpfully, "You might try singing softly; it can help just letting them hear your voice, to know you're there."

"Singing?" Sherlock asked dubiously. Well, John had remarked that Harry liked his violin playing. Sherlock hesitated a moment longer, but Harry was still crying, albeit quieter than before, and the swaying wasn't doing anything but making Sherlock's head dizzy. So he ran through a list of songs in his head, trying to decide what might be appropriate before settling on an old French lullaby he remembered his grandmother used to sing.

Harry looked up when he began and the old woman was beaming approvingly, and so thus encouraged, he continued. Harry settled his head back against his shoulder, much quieter now though his eyes were still wet.

Sherlock was concentrating so hard on Harry and his song that he didn't even notice when John finally did arrive, perhaps because John didn't say or do anything to announce his arrival. Only as Sherlock's song trailed off did he make his presence known, sitting down in the free chair on the opposite side from the old woman.

"John," Sherlock said, looking up from the nearly sleeping child.

"Sherlock," John answered, voice soft and gentle as he reached out a hand to smooth back Harry's hair.

"He wouldn't stop crying," Sherlock said at last, with such a look of being lost that John couldn't resist running a hand through Sherlock's hair as well. Someone from somewhere nearby made a happy noise which they ignored.

"He seems quiet now. Falling asleep," John remarked. And he didn't complain that Sherlock had interrupted him at work like Sherlock had feared, and he wasn't telling Sherlock how hopeless he was, how clueless and negligent or asking why anyone let the freak look after a child. He looked oddly warm, perhaps even pleased, which made no sense at all when Sherlock's care had caused their child to cry for nearly an entire hour without stop.

"Yes," was all Sherlock said in reply. And John might not have been a genius detective, but somehow he seemed quite adept at reading all the things Sherlock couldn't say.

"You two seem to be doing alright, now," John said after a moment, "Do you still need me? I'll be off in two hours." Sherlock considered this.

"I think we'll be alright."


	5. Harry Potter of Baker Street Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 5

Chapter 5

"When you said we should take Harry on a walk, this isn't quite what I thought you meant."

"Should I have taken him to the park, then?" Sherlock demanded, his voice filled with scorn at the very idea.

"Dr. Sundberg thinks it's good for him," John reminded him, though there was no real annoyance behind his words. More like bemusement. In fact, he was happy that Sherlock had taken any interest in fresh air at all, though this wasn't the way he would have gone about it.

"Well, if Dr. Sundberg says," Sherlock answers, his voice laced with sarcasm. Harry giggled from his position on Sherlock's shoulders where Sherlock had put him after it became apparent the young child would never keep up with Sherlock's long legs. "Now, Sherry…"

"Rule five," John interrupted, and Sherlock frowned at him.

"Fine, now, _Harry_ , where are we?"

"Oxford Street!" the child exclaimed enthusiastically, his small hands drumming against the top of Sherlock's head.

"And where is home?"

"Baker Street!"

"Very good. Where on Baker Street?"

"221B," Harry announced with authority and beamed when Sherlock told him he got it right.

"And what street goes in-between Oxford Street and Baker Street?" Here, Harry paused, but only for a moment.

"Lots trees?"

"Very good, it does mean a lot of trees in a garden. Do you remember the word?"

"Old churn?" He was pulling lightly at Sherlock's hair now, a bit distressed as though he knew he was wrong.

"Very close, it's 'orchard'. Orchard Street. What else is in-between?"

"Square," Harry said, more confident now, though his fingers were still entangled in Sherlock's hair in a manner John was almost certain had to be hurting. If it did, Sherlock gave no sign and he didn't make the child let go. John had been poised, several times, to put an end to the quizzing, afraid that Sherlock would take it too far, but so far Harry still seemed to be enjoying it. Besides, John agreed with the concept that Harry learn his way around the neighborhood, if not to the near psychotic extent Sherlock tended to take it.

"Good, and what's the square's name?"

"Um…uh…P..poor...poor…Play-man?"

"Very close. John?"

"What? Oh, uh…Portman Square."

"Very good, John."

John managed to swallow his reply when Harry laughed again.

"Now, pay attention, young Sh…"

" _Rule five_."

"…Harry. Before us are three streets. To the left, we have Tottenham Court Road, ahead, Oxford Street becomes…guess?"

"Oxford Street?" Harry asked. Sherlock had asked him this question at every crossing and 'Still Oxford Street' had been the correct answer every time. Not this time, though.

"Not quite…it's New Oxford Street! And to the right, we have Charingcross Road. Shall we cross here, John?"

"I think we have done quite a lot of walking already," John suggested pointedly. It had been over half an hour to get there, after all. Sherlock, of course, willfully missed the point entirely.

"Let's try Charingcross Road next. What road is this, Sh-Harry?"

"Char-across Road?"

"Almost," Sherlock answered, and continued the lesson as he led the way across the street. With a sigh, John gave in and followed. The walk itself was certainly not unpleasant, even if it didn't include the playground or one of the nearby parks that John had first suggested. Though John did have a passing thought that it would be nice if _he_ could be hoisted onto Sherlock's shoulders as well; keeping up with the man's long legs was nearly as troublesome for John as it was for Harry.

When Harry had first arrived, John never would have guessed that, if the three of them went out together, it would be Sherlock who carried most of the conversation with the boy, never mind carrying the boy himself. Not only that, but Sherlock had yet to call the boy stupid when he forgot something or failed to observe whatever Sherlock's sharp eyes had picked up. John had mentioned this once, to Sherlock, to which Sherlock had replied, "Don't be ridiculous, John. I don't need his therapist to tell me calling him 'stupid' would be detrimental to his development. Besides, at least he tries, which is more than can be said for most of the imbeciles I have to put up with."

At that moment, his conversation mostly consisted of leading Harry to decide that a building that had a lot of books in it and a cash register was probably a bookstore. John smiled back when Harry beamed down at him when he got it right, and wondered how long Sherlock would be able to resist the 'no taking Harry on cases' rule.

"Are you hungry, Harry?" John said then, before Sherlock could come up with another quiz. Harry fidgeted at the question anxiously, obviously as disturbed at answering it as he had been when he couldn't remember the answer to one of Sherlock's questions.

"Don't know?" he said at last, peering down at John to try and see what the right answer was. John managed a small smile.

"Hmm, well, how about you, Sherlock, are you hungry?" Sherlock stared at him quizzically, and for a moment John was afraid this was one of those times Sherlock wasn't going to understand him.

"Yes," Sherlock said in the end, "I am rather hungry." And John breathed a silent sigh of relief. Looking more pleased with himself, Sherlock asked, "What about you, John, are you hungry?"

"Yes I am, thanks for asking. Do you know if you're hungry now, Harry?"

"…yes?"

"Well then," John declared, "I think we should look for someplace to eat. What do you want to eat, Harry?"

"…"

"Do you want to eat…a book?" Harry's smile slowly returned as he recognized that Uncle John was being silly, and he shook his head violently.

"No? Then, do you want to eat…a bus?"

"No!" More giggling and head shaking. Sherlock's expression warred between being amused and being utterly disdainful of the two of them.

"Well then, do you want to eat…" John cast his eyes about for something equally silly.

"Here." Sherlock stopped suddenly, staring hard at a decrepit building placed between a bookshop and a shop advertising CDs, records, and books. John stared in confusion.

"A pub? This place doesn't look that…clean," John answered, frowning.

"John," Sherlock hissed, "Look, really look. There's something very strange here."

"And you want to take Harry to see it?" Nonetheless, John tried to see what Sherlock was talking about. Besides the odd name, and John had certainly seen stranger when it came to pubs, there was nothing in particular that stood out about it.

"Oh, not dangerous-strange. Besides, I suspect this is just exactly the sort of place to take Harry."

"An old, leaky pub is the sort of place to take Harry?"

"Look! John, just look, can't you see it?" John continued to stare at him incomprehensively while Harry's fist tightened around Sherlock's hair again in distress that Sherlock sounded a bit angry. When John obviously couldn't see what Sherlock did, Sherlock made a noise of frustration and attempted to explain, almost too fast for John to follow. "Look, people are walking right past us, they go in that shop, or that one, they _look_ at those shops. No one is looking here."

"So, it's an ugly old building," John pointed out, and then, "Sherlock, I think you're scaring…"

"They don't look because they can't look. I used to be like them, even me, don't you see? I have walked every street, memorized every road, byway, alleyway, shortcuts and long ways around, I've seen it all, and what's more, I remember it all; I could name every shop on this street, every cross street, every pub or café or restaurant, and you know what? I have never, in all my time on this road, seen _that_ pub!"

"Never?" John asked, taking another look and trying to see the world the way Sherlock did, "It doesn't look that new."

"I didn't say it was new, I said it wasn't there. There is no building in-between those shops, just an empty alleyway, a quite short one that ended in a solid wall. Odd, now that I think; I noted the alley but never tried to walk down it. The more I try to picture it, the more the dimensions never fit, but I never noticed before. Me, I never noticed. Do you know what this means?"

"That you missed something?"

"Of course not. It _means_ that these talismans work perfectly! It means this pub was hidden using glutinium energy, it means, John, Harry, that this pub's clientele consists of glutinic sensitives. In short, there is magic afoot!"

And that said, Sherlock marched up to the door and entered the Leaky Cauldron, Harry still clutching tightly to his hair. John was forced to follow, swearing softly under his breath and knowing he would need to have words with Sherlock later, to yet again explain why going into a mysterious pub that they knew nothing about with Harry in tow was _not done_.

Inside the place felt just as grubby as John had feared, but not nearly as unpleasant as the outside conveyed. It was old but mostly clean, and Harry was certainly not the only child present in the room. Whether the people were really _magical_ , well, John still had a hard time convincing himself that magic was real, even after the demonstration Mycroft had arranged. He was still half convinced that it was a joke the Holmes brothers were playing on him.

While John was still assessing the pub's suitability for their lunch, Sherlock had already taken over a table and was in the process of disentangling Harry from his hair as he attempted to set him down. He did finally manage it with only a few winces of pain, and Harry immediately crawled into his lap. Sherlock frowned as John sat across from them, grateful at least for the chance to sit down.

"The boy seems to be upset," Sherlock announced, looking at John expectantly to explain the mysteries of childhood.

"He thinks you're angry," John answered, "I did try to say you were scaring him. He doesn't understand the difference between shouting because you are excited or frustrated, and shouting because you are angry." His tone wasn't accusatory and Sherlock accepted the explanation, storing the information for the future.

"Ah. Young Sherrinford…"

"Harry."

"Yes, that…I am not angry at you or Uncle John. Sometimes I see more than other people, and I get…unhappy when no one else can see it, too. Do you understand?"

"Yes?" Harry answered in a small voice, attempting to twist his head up enough to see Sherlock's expression while he fussed nervously with Sherlock's scarf.

"There, you see, John? He understands." John sighed, but didn't bother to contradict him. Harry wasn't crying and he was managing verbal answers, so John supposed the boy was alright in any case.

They did end up eating in the pub, even Sherlock, much to John's delight. Sherlock had been making more of an effort when it had been pointed out to him, from multiple people, that his eating habits were a bad influence on Harry, who they had a hard enough time as it was convincing him it was alright to admit he was hungry. The food was slightly better than what John had feared, and the drinks the bartender had suggested, upon learning that the three of them were new to the 'wizarding world', were quite good, though they only let Harry have a couple sips of the butterbeer since he was a bit young for it. Sherlock didn't seem to care for the warmed beverage or for the cold pumpkin juice Harry had been given, and seemed somewhat less pleased with his tea.

"John," Sherlock said, halfway through their meal during which Harry had somehow migrated to John's lap rather than Sherlock's, "What have you observed?"

"The chips are a bit salty?" he asked and Sherlock gave him an exasperated look.

"About the room, John. The people. What have you observed?"

"Alright," John answered, feeling more agreeable after eating and getting to rest his legs a bit, "There are two other families present and three people sitting alone. The families tell me this is safe, friendly environment despite the state of the building, but the people sitting alone tell me it is also a place that attracts an unsociable crowd, regulars likely. The families consist of a grandmother and a boy around Harry's age, and a mother and father with their two school aged children. Of the three loners, two appear to be drinking, and the third has a tea."

"Coffee, actually, but not too bad. Harry, what do you see?" Harry fidgeted nervously, his eyes looking around the room. He locked eyes, briefly, with the other little boy but both looked away shyly.

"They dress funny," he said at last, "And they have funny drinks."

"Perfectly said," Sherlock answered, delighted, "John notices everything but what he doesn't want to see, and you see exactly what is most important; that this is, indeed, not a typical English pub."

"Because it's magical?" John asked, trying hard to keep back the skepticism. He looked again. The people were, in fact, dressed a bit funny. Not all of them; the closest family in fact was dressed in perfectly normal clothes, and what he could see of the grandmother and her grandson did not look that odd. But the other three patrons were obviously wearing robes.

"And have you observed the coming and going?" Sherlock asked.

"No. Because we came to eat."

"Don't you see? I think this place is a gateway to a glutinic location which has been hidden by their society. I believe, in fact, that it is through there." His eyes gleamed with excitement and the desire to explore. When John failed to react, Sherlock turned his attention towards Harry.

"Come now, Sherry…"

"Rule…"

"Fine, fine, Harry!" Sherlock exclaimed with annoyance, "Now, don't you want to…"

"Harry? Like Harry Potter?" One of the individuals sitting at a nearby table was craning their head for a closer look at the child. There was a sudden, intense silence throughout the room and all eyes were turned to look at them.

Some weren't just looking. They were standing, edging closer for a better look. Harry hid his face in John's jumper.

"Is it Harry Potter?" the little girl of the nearby family whispered through the silence to her mum, "Does he have the scar?"

"Tell me, sir, is it Harry Potter?" an old woman asked, crowding far too close in an attempt to see the boy's face, "I would like to shake his hand!"

"It's not, I'm afraid," John answered tensely, his instincts screaming for him to fight back, despite there being no real conflict present.

"He's my son, Harry Sherrinford Holmes," Sherlock announced, his voice cold as he glared at the person who dared enter their space, "And you're scaring him. Leave."

"Please," John added, though he actually appreciated Sherlock's lack of social graces in this instance. The woman didn't seem to be convinced but she did back off under the power of their combined glares. She didn't go far though.

"Are you sure? Just let us see his forehead…"

"Enough, Gladys," the bartender barked, suddenly appearing behind her, "This family doesn't need you antagonizing them and scaring the boy." Reluctantly, Gladys slowly slunk back to her seat. The bartender continued to glare at everyone until they turned away and the low hum of talk slowly resumed. He turned back to them. "Sorry about that. Will you have another drink, perhaps more juice for the boy? On the house."

"No thank you," John said firmly, "We really must be leaving."

"Alright then, I hope you return soon," the bartender answered, and then leaning in close in conspiratorial manner, he said, "If I might make a suggestion, perhaps you could invest in a hat? Very helpful things, hats, for keeping warm…for concealment…very helpful things."

"Er, yes. Thank you," John answered, "Perhaps we shall." The bartender gave them a nod and sent Harry one last friendly smile before he left again. Harry missed all of this as his face was still buried in John's jumper.

"Come, John," Sherlock said, casting his voice much lower than he had before, "We should seek out the door in the back to…"

"No. We shouldn't." Sherlock frowned. "Look at H…Sherry, Sherlock. He's tired, he's scared…his head is cold. It's time to go home."

"But, John, we need to explore…"

"How long has this magical world existed?"

"What? Centuries, I suppose. For millennia. Perhaps from the dawn of mankind, weren't you listening when it was explained?"

"So it's unlikely to be gone by tomorrow, then?" Sherlock's answer to that was to pout. "Look at him, Sherlock, really look. Use that intellect of yours. And then tell me you really think dragging H-Sherry to explore this 'magical gateway' right now is a good idea. Do you even know it's safe?"

"There are other children…"

"100 percent. Do you know it's safe?" Sherlock was silent. "We are going home." And John gathered Harry into his arms where Harry clung back with all his might. He walked out of the pub. Around them, the world went on. People walked by, their eyes sliding away from John, Harry, and the pub behind them as they went intently on their way or strolled leisurely by. He waited, counting in his head, hoping. He got to twelve before the door opened behind them.

"Perhaps some dark glasses should be used in this disguise as well."

"Well, you are the master at disguises, Sherlock." Sherlock mused out loud over wigs and make up as they started back towards Oxford Street.

By the time they reached their flat, Harry was smiling again as he quite proudly listed every road, street, and square they had walked. Sherlock gave him a biscuit and patted him on the head. John gave Sherlock a biscuit as well.

Author's note: I have been to London once several years ago. I most certainly do not remember the layout of the streets. All information I have came from Google Earth and Google maps and assumes that the existing Baker Street in London is the Baker Street they live on. I did search, but could not find a reference to a records shop on Charingcross Road, and certainly none next to a bookstore (J.K. Rowling stated the Leaky Cauldron was between the two). Well, perhaps there was one back when the Harry Potter series took place, but as I've chosen to move Harry forward in time rather than Sherlock and John back…I decided a small matter of what stores border the Leaky Cauldron is hardly a matter to dwell deeply upon. Anyway, the real point of this author's note was to say if anyone who actually knows London finds any information in this chapter faulty, please let me know.


	6. Harry Potter of Baker Street Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 6

Chapter 6

There was a woman standing at the door, professional, small statured but with the bearing of one determined to overcome their size with the fierceness of a bulldog. She was holding a couple of folders and was poised to knock when Sherlock strode up the street and to the door.

"Ah," she managed to say as he unlocked the door, "Do you live here?" It wasn't really a question; the woman was not that stupid, or perhaps simply not imaginative enough, to think that a man opening a door with a key didn't live there. Sherlock didn't answer and in any case she didn't seem to expect him to because she was already speaking, "My name is Amalthea Forest and I'm here to see…"

And that was all she got out before Sherlock had opened the door, stepped inside, and then shut it behind himself again with her firmly on the other side. The lock clicked.

Sherlock, not caring in the least that he was being what most people would consider extremely rude, or perhaps truly not realizing it as he was caught up in his own discoveries, bounded up the stairs and threw open the door to the flat.

"John!" he shouted, his eyes alight with excitement, "John, come and see!" And he swung a peculiar bag from its place thrown over his shoulder onto the kitchen table. It was a cloth bag, of a material that was both heavier and less resilient than modern bags usually go for, and it fastened with ties and buttons without a single zipper to be seen. It didn't look at all the sort of bag Sherlock would seek out for himself and definitely wasn't one he would normally find excitement in sharing.

"John!" he called again when no evidence of his flat mate and sort of husband appeared. Before he could shout again a person did respond at last by running into the room and colliding with his knees.

"Ah, Sherrinford," Sherlock proclaimed with a delighted grin.

"Yip yip!" Harry answered, holding his hands in the manner of a dog sitting up on its hind legs and sticking out his tongue while panting. Sherlock obligingly patted him on the head. Then he continued to completely ignore John's list of rules by lifting the boy up and setting him down on the edge of the table next to the bag.

"Now Sherry, where do you think I've been?"

"Yip!"

"Yes…in English, Sherry, I don't speak dog."

"Yip yip!"

"He's been doing that all day," John remarked, coming into the kitchen. He wasn't alone.

"Hello, Sherlock," DI Lestrade said, briefly attracting Sherlock's attention as he pushed aside a pile of books with an assortment of titles from a copy of Moby Dick to books on PTSD. Those that threatened to fall on the floor Sherlock scooped up and transferred to a nearby counter, sweeping aside take out boxes into the sink to make room.

"Detective Inspector," Sherlock said as he moved things around, "What brings you here? Any new murders?"

"Just a social visit," Lestrade answered, "I was just talking to John about bringing over my niece…"

"Why?"

"She's about Harry's age."

"Right. Social interaction, important for childhood development…" Sherlock mumbled, making a note in his head before dismissing it altogether in favor of what he had come to share. He was nearly hopping with excitement, clapping his hands together as he said, "John, we must prepare an outing with young Sherrinford, this place is simply fantastic…which is to say completely backwards, superstitious, and suspicious, but still fantastic!"

"Sorry," John said, with a slight twitch in his eyes as he looked towards Lestrade and back again, "But are you talking about…you know…"

"Glutinic Society, of course, yes…what? You seem to have developed a twitch, John, are you alright?"

"It's just, I'm not sure Greg…"

"Who?" Everyone stared at Sherlock. Harry yipped.

"My first name," Lestrade managed to say, his tone exhibiting complete disbelief.

"Oh, right, yes…carry on, what is it you wanted to say, John?" And Sherlock began to pull some books from the bag.

"Ah, Sherlock!" John exclaimed; the books themselves seemed innocuous but the titles were rather occult in nature and who knew what else had been put in the bag? "Don't you think this can wait?"

"Why?" Sherlock stared, studying the eye twitch in confusion, until it suddenly clicked. "Oh, don't tell me, you want to keep their secret," he said, his tone implying how ridiculous he thought that, "I see no reason why we should succumb to their cultish secretive hysteria surrounding a perfectly natural scientific phenomenon just because 'Greg' is not genetically gifted."

"It's not a matter of succumbing, Sherlock, it's a matter of being thought utter nutters."

"Excuse me, but what exactly is this about?" Lestrade picked up the topmost book which was titled _The Squib Effect, a Study in Blood Dilution and the Decline in Wizardry_. Below that was _Appellation Vibrations, the power in names or Why I Was Destined to Write This Book_ by Schuyler D. Moniker. Not that Lestrade was looking too closely at the titles. He had been a bit distracted by the picture on the first.

"What is this, holograms?" he asked, studying it. The picture was simple enough, just a droplet of blood falling. Except most pictures of that sort only showed a single moment of the fall rather than the entire sequence.

"Yes. Yes, that's exactly what it is," Sherlock answered, "Very good." His tone was that he reserved for imbeciles when they came to exactly the wrong conclusion. Lestrade had known Sherlock long enough to not bother with being offended.

"Seriously, that's a bit…" he said, frowning. Whatever he thought it was never said as that was right when Mrs. Hudson came in.

"Sherlock, there's a woman come to see you," she said, "She said she tried to talk to you before and you swept past her."

"What? Oh yes, professional type, thought she might be another Mary, but she called herself something different." People were staring at him again. Except for Harry, who was interestedly examining a book with people zooming over the cover on broomsticks.

"You're sure she isn't another Mary?" John asked, hesitant between berating yet another example of Sherlock's complete lack of social skills and congratulating him on stalling the woman if it did turn out to be yet another nanny applicant sent by Mycroft. That man was turning out to be as bad as Sherlock when it came to determining suitability in people meant to help rear children. Most of them had been about as maternal as the marines. And they all said their name was Mary.

"A what?" Lestrade asked, though his attention was still arrested upon the book in his hands. Mrs. Hudson was still waiting, frowning with disapproval.

"Really, Sherlock, it isn't nice to leave people on the doorstep," She scolded.

"Where exactly is she now?" John thought to ask.

"Waiting at the bottom of the stairs; I told her I'd fetch you."

"Alright, we better bring her up and see what she wants," John decided, "Er…do you mind…"

"I'll just go and make some tea," Mrs. Hudson said agreeably, "Just this once. I'm not your…"

"Yes, thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said swiftly. His enthusiasm in his find was beginning to dim in light of all these interruptions.

"Yes, right," John said, and he began to swiftly sweep the books back into the bag, grabbing them out of the hands of Lestrade and Harry. Harry frowned when it was taken but didn't protest in the way most children his age might.

"Perhaps I should go…" Lestrade said, in a manner that suggested he'd rather not but thought it polite to suggest it.

"Alright," Sherlock said but at the same moment John's voice overrode his with, "Perhaps you could take Harry to his room?"

Harry did not look happy with this arrangement but he had yet to actually protest when giving a command. John was both dreading and hoping for the first incident when he did, but it didn't look like it would be today.

The woman was shown up the stairs just as Lestrade and Harry disappeared into Harry's room. John and Sherlock barely noticed as they were having a silent but heated battle when Sherlock still wanted to pull out his new finds and John was equally determined that they stay hidden.

"Excuse me," the woman announced herself, "My name is Amalthea Forest and I'm here to see Sherlock Holmes and John Watson concerning their new ward, Harry Potter."

Both men froze. There was another moment in which John attempted to instruct Sherlock to behave with his eyes alone, and then they both finally turned to acknowledge the woman's existence.

"Pleased to meet you, Miss Forest, I am Sherlock Holmes and this is my husband John Watson. Social Services, I presume? Please, allow me to take your coat."

John let out a slow breath as Sherlock did indeed take the woman's coat to drape it over a nearby chair. So Sherlock was going to go along with him and play at being charming.

"I'm from both the Muggle organization and the Magical Social Services, a sub-branch to Muggle Relations and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement," the woman confirmed, "We like to check on intermixed families and I'm sure you're aware of the circumstances surrounding Harry."

"Yes, yes, of course," John answered, "You have, erm, questions?"

"I need to assess his living environment, yes, and I would like to question each member of the household individually. Where is Harry at the moment?"

"In his room, with a friend of ours," John answered. His own eyes followed hers about the room and he cringed at the mess. Take out containers and assorted books and journals littered the room as well as a virtual storm of newspaper clippings. She wandered into the kitchen and her eyes fell upon the large poster hung on the wall titled 'Things Not Allowed with Four Year Olds'.

"What's this?" she asked, her eyes reading down the list, "1. Four year olds are not to have access to chemicals, body parts, glass, or flames." Added on afterwards as an aside were the words 'No, not even if you are present and it is a good learning experience.'

"John made it for me," Sherlock answered candidly and somewhat proudly before John could come up with anything, "He's a doctor. He knows about these things."

"Hmm," she said, marking something on a paper as she read over the rest of the rules. John, in the mean time, tried to nudge the room into some kind of order while she wasn't looking. Then Mrs. Hudson appeared with the tea.

"Mrs. Hudson, this is Amalthea Forest. With _social services_ ," John told her, after thanking her for the tea. Mrs. Hudson got the hint at once.

"Oh…oh! I should tell you, you wouldn't find a nicer couple to take in young Harry," Mrs. Hudson said, and then, "Perhaps I should bring up the good biscuits." And she darted off again. Miss Forest was mostly ignoring the tea in favor of looking through the titles of books and journals strewn about.

"I take it you are not taking Mr. Potter's former circumstances lightly," she remarked, her tone neutral as she held up a copy of _Dealing with Childhood Trauma_ _and PTSD_.

"No, of course not," John answered, "We take him to his therapist every Tuesday and Thursday."

"Hmm, I will want to talk to him, of course. Is he of the magical world?"

"He came highly recommended," John answered, which of course wasn't an answer at all. She made another hmming noise and marked something down. She went on to look in the bedrooms. The room Sherlock and John were sleeping in was surprisingly neat and clean compared to the rest of the flat. The clothes were put away or in the hamper, the bed was made, and no newspaper clipping or case notes had been allowed to intrude.

"Yes, this is our room. That we share. Because we're married," Sherlock announced. He put his arm around John's shoulder. Which was, oddly enough, perfectly true, even if it did imply certain intimacies that they most assuredly did not share. John couldn't help but think that if it had been a complete lie, Sherlock would have been much better at making it sound true. As it was, he managed to smile blandly when she stared at the two of them and didn't shake off the arm. She made another note.

"And this must be Mr. Potter's room?" she asked, after a brief look in at the toilet.

"Yes, I…I'll let them know you're here," John answered, and he went in. Harry was coloring again and Lestrade was sitting on the floor with him, talking softly. Harry looked up when the door opened.

"Uncle John!" he exclaimed, just as excited as though he hadn't seen him in ages, and he jumped up to throw his arms around his legs. John smiled and kneeled awkwardly to talk to him.

"Harry, a woman has come to see you. She wants to make sure you are happy here." Harry looked uncertain about this and didn't answer. "Can you come say hello?" Harry considered. "Please? I really want you to talk to her." Slowly, Harry nodded. John smiled at him and Harry slowly, carefully smiled back. He stood and nodded towards the woman that she could enter.

"So, this is Harry's bedroom," Sherlock remarked. It was slightly less sparse as a children's room than it had been when Harry had first arrived. He had a child's bed now, and two shelves filled with children's books and toys. The wallpaper was still a bit dull, in John's opinion, the monotony only broken by yet another list posted to the wall. It was more colorful than Sherlock's list of rules, including pictures which had different numbers of stickers next to them. Amalthea Forest looked around briefly but made no notes, choosing instead to acknowledge the people in the room.

"Hello, my name is Amalthea Forest," she annunciated carefully, as though she were afraid Harry might have difficulty with the English language, "What's your name?" Harry looked towards John and Sherlock before answering.

"Sherry." John had to work very hard not to react negatively. Sherlock looked pleased. Miss Forest looked taken aback.

"Did you say Sherry?"

"It's short for Sherrinford. I'm a puppy."

"Oh, I see," she said, smiling kindly at him. It looked far more genuine than any reaction she had given John or Sherlock, and John began to slightly revise his first impression of her.

"And I'm DI Lestrade," Lestrade said suddenly, "We're pleased to meet you, aren't we, Harry?"

"Pleased to meet you," Harry repeated obediently, and then he apparently lost interest in all of them because he went back to his drawing. Amalthea Forest didn't look put out from this; she took the opportunity to inspect the room more closely and take notes.

"What's this?" she asked when she reached the 'Harry's Rules' list posted to the wall.

"A list of rules for Harry," Sherlock answered, staring at her as though she were a moron. Suddenly Harry wandered over again when he saw what they were looking at.

"I get stars if I'm good," he announced, "And then I get a treat. See, I have 1, 2, 3, 4…" and he counted out the stars in each row. John slowly relaxed slightly as it seemed he wouldn't have to explain it after all. Perhaps he still needed to explain to Sherlock why he shouldn't imply people were stupid to ask a question.

"Can you tell me what these pictures mean?" Amalthea asked, as there wasn't a written explanation with the rules.

"This means I pick up my toys," he announced, pointing to the first picture, "This means I not clean other rooms, this mean I eat all my food and say when I'm hungry, this mean I sleep in bed, not closet, and this mean I talk to people and play and not hide."

"I see," she answered, though from her expression she obviously didn't, "And what happens if you're bad. Do you take away a star?" Harry frowned, then suddenly ran away again to hide behind Sherlock's legs.

"Not bad," he said in a small voice, clinging tightly. Sherlock frowned at the woman. John and Lestrade both moved to intervene quickly before he could react.

"She means naughty," Lestrade said at the same time John said, "We say naughty, and he keeps his stars. There's no punishment if he doesn't meet one of the goals. If he doesn't do what he's told, he gets a warning and then a time out."

Then there was an awkward moment of silence. Mrs. Hudson chose that moment to arrive with the biscuits.

By the time Amalthea Forest finally left, John felt a nervous wreck. She had spoken to all of them individually, except for Harry because Sherlock put his foot down and said he was not going to allow a stranger be alone with him, even a stranger claiming to be part of social services. They finally settled on a compromise of having Lestrade present for the interview.

"I can't believe you told her you put blankets in the closet so Harry would be more comfortable when he slept there," John groaned after she had left.

"I did put them in there so he would be more comfortable."

"But the point is, we aren't making him sleep in the closet. You did say that, at least?"

"I thought it was obvious. We give him stars when he sleeps in the bed."

"Did she ask either of you some…odd questions?" Lestrade asked, sipping his own cup of tea that Mrs. Hudson had kindly laced with something a bit stronger for him. John and Sherlock looked at each other.

"Odd how?" John asked.

"It's just…she was asking something about magic…well, I suppose it was some effort to relate to children."

"Right," John agreed.

"Obviously," Sherlock said, and then ruined any relief John might have felt by continuing with, "I suppose she thought him too infantile to understand the proper scientific terms. She even insisted upon asking me how I felt looking after a 'magical' child who had abilities we did not."

"Right. Er…what exactly did you answer?" John asked.

"That I am surpassed in skill in many areas. You, for instance, are a much better shot…"

"Oh, God, tell me you didn't tell her that!"

"…that both you and Greg are more skilled in social interactions, John, do stop making that face, it's distracting, and that I'm quite pleased to know someone who is glutinium sensitive as well as those who are not, including myself, because it allows for more variables and impartial viewpoints in my experiments…what is it?"

"Glutinium sensitive? What are you talking about? What…are you texting someone?"

"Mycroft. If you are going to insist upon these visits, I refuse to censor myself. He should be sending someone shortly to enlighten you…better do Mrs. Hudson as well."

They had to wait an entire week before Mycroft thought to inform them that social services was definitely not going to come and take his nephew away. And that he was pleased they had managed her well enough that he didn't actually need to interfere.

Lestrade looked a bit dazed for a while afterwards. Mrs. Hudson was only disappointed when she was told she could not tell anyone about it.


	7. Harry Potter of Baker Street Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 7

“John! The child is leaking!”  
  
Sherlock’s distressed cry rang through the flat and sent John from sleep to wakefulness in seconds. He rushed out towards the kitchen where the cry had come from, not knowing what to expect. What did Sherlock mean by ‘leaking’? Did he mean Harry had had an accident, or that he was bleeding out on the floor? Then he was in the kitchen and there was no sign of blood or disturbing smells. What he did find was Sherlock holding Harry. The hold was awkward because Sherlock had donned the oven mitts and was holding the boy carefully in an attempt to create minimal contact, a hold which was thwarted by the boy himself who seemed determined to snuggle. That was all John managed to notice before Sherlock saw him and thrust the child at him with a look of intense relief.  
  
“Oh good. You’re a doctor; fix him.”  
  
“What?” John asked, accepting Harry automatically, adrenalin still pumping despite the absence of apparent threats. Then Harry made a snuffling noise and sneezed. John looked and finally realized what Sherlock meant by ‘leaking’.  
  
“Good morning, Harry,” John said, “Not feeling well today?” Harry didn’t answer, just clung to him tightly while snot dripped down his face. “Right. Sherlock, can you give us a tissue?”  
  
“Busy,” Sherlock answered. John frowned.  
  
“Busy with what?” he asked, after digging out the box of tissues himself one handed, “Blow.” Harry did and John attempted to make the child seem less leaky.  
  
“Decontamination,” Sherlock answered as he struggled out of his shirt and gingerly carried it and the oven mitts towards the fireplace. John, briefly, considered stopping him but decided it would be easier to replace the items than argue with Sherlock, and besides his hands were still full of sick boy. He put his hand against Harry’s forehead and found it hot.  
  
An hour later, Harry was still leaking and quiet and clingy and doped up on children’s medicine and John was getting ready to go to work. Sherlock had spent most of that hour spraying every surface in the house with a product promising to kill all germs and the rest of the hour in argument with John as to whether his pajamas needed to be burnt or merely washed.  
  
It wasn’t until John was giving Sherlock the print-off he had just made on how to care for a sick child that Sherlock had, in fact, realized that John’s preparations for work didn’t include bringing Harry with him.  
  
“Wait, what do you mean you’re leaving Sherry with me?”   
  
“I’ll be working,” John pointed out reasonably, “He’d be miserable there. Even more miserable.” He ran his hand over Harry’s hair where he sat on the sofa.  
  
“He’s sick. You’re a doctor. Shouldn’t you be watching him?”  
  
“It’s a cold, Sherlock, I think you will manage. Just follow the instructions.”   
  
“But you’re a doctor! You have a super immune system. I just have a regular immune system!”  
  
“You’ll be fine,” John insisted. And despite his private misgivings at leaving a sick child alone in the care of a man who had spent the last quarter of an hour following him around to spray anything Harry touched, John left.  
  
He had been away from the flat for fifteen minutes before the first call came.  
  
“He’s making a huffing, squeaking noise. Your notes don’t say anything about huffing squeaking noises.” And the phone was held towards the boy so that John could hear. Then the sound of the spray and finally Sherlock again.  
  
“His nose is stopped up,” John answered, “It’s fine.”  
  
“Well, what do I do to make him stop?”  
  
“Hold him in your lap and sing to him.”  
  
“That will make him stop?”  
  
“It will make him feel better…I mean, yes. It might take a few days to work but just keep at it.” Sherlock hung up. John hoped he wasn’t still keeping Harry at arm’s length. It had been at the top of his list that Harry absolutely above all else needed cuddles but he had no idea if Sherlock would accept it as a rule or merely as advice. The next call, surprisingly, wasn’t from Sherlock at all. It was from Mrs. Hudson.  
  
“John, dear, is everything alright? Sherlock asked for tea but he won’t let me in; he said something about quarantine?”  
  
A rather shocked John managed to stammer out an explanation and that Harry’s sickness wasn’t serious before he called Sherlock himself.  
  
“Really, John, everyone knows old people have horrible immune systems,” Sherlock answered when questioned on the quarantine.  Considering John had more or less expected Sherlock to foist the sick child on Mrs. Hudson the moment John had left, he found this more than a little surprising.  
  
“You are cuddling him, right?” he asked at last, “How is he?”  
  
“His temperature is still within the safety parameters you left me, he drank half the glass of juice I gave him, and I cannot hold him and play the violin at the same time.” He sounded awfully pleased with himself at that, that he had found a way to take care of the boy without touching. “Do you want to talk to him?”  
  
“Is he talking again?” John asked.  
  
“No. But he does seem to listen.” So John said hello and barely heard Harry when he did in fact answer.  
  
For the next couple of hours Sherlock managed by sending texts and the occasional picture. One picture was quite cute despite the red nose and cheeks. Harry was sleeping, surrounded by stuffed animals. The text that followed was less cute.  
  
-Do you think I should burn them afterwards? SH-  
  
-Don’t you dare, JW-  
  
-We can buy new ones. SH-  
  
-They are contaminated. SH-  
  
-They will wash, JW-  
  
After that was an ominous silence for nearly an hour during which John pointedly did not rush home to make sure Sherlock wasn’t burning Harry’s toys. When Sherlock called again it was shortly after lunch.  
  
“Sherrinford won’t take his medicine.”  
  
“Tell him he has to or he won’t get well.”  
  
“I did. I explained it all to him.”  
  
“And…?”

“He exploded the bottle.” Sherlock sounded oddly proud of this fact. “And then he started crying.  
  
“He…exploded the bottle?”  
  
“With glutinic energy. It was brilliant. But now he’s hiding under the sink.”  
  
“And crying.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“I…have another call.”  
  
“John dear, there are very strange noises coming from your flat. Are you sure Sherlock and Harry are alright in there?”  
  
“Strange noises? Like…breaking glass?”  
  
“Yes, just now. And before that there were…smashing noises.”  
  
“…One moment, Mrs. Hudson, I’m talking to Sherlock now.”  
  
“Johnjohnjohnjohnjo-"  
  
"Sherlock!"  
  
"Oh good, you're back; can you pick up ten more bottles?”  
  
“...Mrs. Hudson said you were smashing things earlier?”  
  
“I told you, I was explaining to Sherry about why he should take his medicine.”  
  
“And this involved smashing things?”  
  
“Involves more senses, tactile and visual, better for learning and understanding. The bottles, John?”  
  
“One moment…Mrs. Hudson, are you still there?”  
  
“It’s quiet in there now…I don’t know why Sherlock won’t let me in. He told me to leave the tray of soup outside the door.”  
  
“He doesn’t want to get you sick,” John explained, and then, “Mrs. Hudson, do you mind going out and picking up some medicine for Harry? It seems Harry accidently…broke ours.”  
  
“Was that the noise I heard? What about before? I was afraid assassins had come after Sherlock; you know how it can be.”  
  
“No, no, that was…a lesson in germ fighting apparently.”  
  
“I’d be happy to pick something up; I was just about to pop out to the shops for myself.”  
  
“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Right…Sherlock, let me talk to Harry.”  
  
All in all the call went on for a good half hour longer, during which time Mrs. Hudson made it out and came back. John distinctly heard her knocking at the door and Sherlock hollering out at her to leave the bottles, still going on about quarantine. He also heard Sherlock’s disappointment that there was only one.  
  
“You are not running experiments on Harry,” John informed him sternly when Sherlock sounded ready to make their landlady go back out in the cold again.  
  
“Fine. See, look, Sherry. We have another bottle. Do you want to come out now? … Good boy.” Disaster averted and cuddling resumed, John finally went back to his job.   
  
He still had two hours left of work when the next call came.  
  
“Isn’t it your turn to watch him yet?”  
  
“I’m at work, Sherlock. It hasn’t anything to do with taking turns.”  
  
“I have work, too. Lestrade called with a case.” John didn’t answer for a moment. To be honest, he hadn’t expected Sherlock to last as long as he had with a sick child. And it would hardly be fair to imply Sherlock’s work was less important than John’s. But someone had to watch Harry, and out of the two of them, Sherlock’s work could more easily wait.  
  
“Then leave him with Mrs. Hudson,” John suggested as a compromise.  
  
“Can’t, John, quarantine, do try to keep up.”  
  
“Well then, you’ll just have to wait until I’m done with my work to go do yours.”  
  
“No good, Anderson will have obliterated the evidence, perhaps ‘Uncle Greg’…”  
  
“You are not taking Harry outside. It’s freezing out and he’s sick.”  
  
“…One of Mycroft’s Marys…”  
  
“And you are not leaving him with a stranger.”  
  
“…fine.” And he hung up. With a sigh, John weighed going home early with trying to find another babysitter for a sick child. Finally, he picked up the phone again.  
  
“Hello…Harry?”  
  
Meanwhile, Sherlock ran through the options of ‘not a stranger’ and not removing the child from the house.  
  
-Mycroft. Emergency. Come at once. SH-  
  
Two hours later, John left work. He stopped on the way to pick up more tissues, medicine, and on a whim he found a copy of the Velveteen Rabbit. If Sherlock did manage to get past him to burn Harry’s new toys, John hoped he’d at least be able to console Harry with the story.  
  
He wasn’t sure what he expected when he got back. Perhaps to find the flat turned into a disaster zone, furniture smashed and glass on the floor and medicine on the walls. Perhaps a mountain of used tissues. Or the exact opposite, to find Sherlock had turned their flat into a giant clean room in his attempt to obliterate all germs.  
  
He also had some vague idea that young Harry would be sleeping or watching a film while his sister Harry did her own thing in the general vicinity.  
  
When he got in, the flat was neither destroyed nor ultra clean, despite the faint odor of the germ killing spray. Harry was sitting on the sofa, cloaked in a blanket and surrounded by stuffed animals, paper and crayons. He wasn’t watching a film, though.  
  
“And with that,” Mycroft announced, “The wicked stepmother and the two wicked stepsisters left for the ball. Poor Cinderella was left all alone.”  
  
“Oh, alas, alas!” John’s sister wailed dramatically, “How I wish I could go to the ball!” And she burst into fake tears. On the couch, Harry giggled.  
  
“It was at that moment,” Mycroft continued as John walked into the room, “That a strange being appeared.”  
  
John couldn’t help but feel he could have had better timing than to enter the room right at that moment.  
  
“Uncle John!” Harry exclaimed, reaching excitedly for John’s arms. John took him, feeling his forehead and still finding it too warm.  
  
“The icky medicine is fighting the icky germs,” Harry told him, “The medicine is icky, I don’t like it, Uncle Sherlock says it is stronger icky than germs to kill germs. Germs are dis…distesting…but not me, I’m good. And Uncle Mycra and Aunt Harry, and Aunt Catherine, and and…Mary Poppy are doing a play and…are you the fairy?”  
  
“Well, I see you feel better,” John said with a smile. He raised his eyebrow and the host of people standing before him. Along with Mycroft and his sister there was also not-Anthea, who he guessed was going by Catherine at the moment, and a very large dark skinned man in a suit who John vaguely recognized as one of Mycroft’s offered nannies.  
  
“You didn’t say you found others to watch Harry,” his sister said, looking up from her fake crying, “I was a little worried when they all showed up, but Harry seemed to know them.”  
  
“I didn’t know. Sherlock must have called.” A small hand tugged at John’s sleeve.  
  
“Uncle John, you inter…interrupt show.”  
  
“Right…sorry. Let’s just sit here and watch.” And he sat down in the middle of the storm of toys with Harry in his lap. Not looking the slightest embarrassed to be caught putting on a play for a sick child, Mycroft took up the book and went on from where he left off.  
  
“A strange being appeared.” The man in the suit stepped forward and in a serious, deep voice, announced, “Do not cry. I am your fairy godmother.” He had a wand. Otherwise John had never seen anyone who looked less like a fairy godmother. On the other hand, when it came time to transform ‘Cinderella’s’ dress, it really did transform into a sparkly blue monstrosity. Harry clapped.  
  
By the end of the story, the ‘princess’ Catherine found Cinderella through her powers of deduction and they lived happily ever after.   
  
Before they all left, Mycroft handed John a small bottle.  
  
“Pepper-up Potion,” he explained, “It cures the cold. One side-effect is steam coming out of the ears. It is recommended to let colds and minor illnesses run their course; it helps the immune system in the long run to not always fall back on magic. But for recurring illness…”  
  
“Right. Thank you.” He still found the idea of magic a bit bewildering. This was the first he had heard of magical medicine. Perhaps it was time he started to look into magic a bit himself instead of leaving it all to Sherlock.  
  
That night, Harry didn’t sleep in his closet. He also didn’t sleep in his bed. No matter what Sherlock said about contamination, he still fell asleep with a small boy leaking against his chest.


	8. Harry Potter of Baker Street Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Harry was hiding and Sherlock was sulking, not a good combination when Harry's hiding place was under Sherlock's coat. It meant that Sherlock made no move to dislodge the child and encourage him to participate. Not that John really blamed either of them; he had no idea what Mycroft had been thinking.

"I thought we agreed to one or two," John said to Mycroft, "Not four…five…oh good God, they're cloning themselves. Can they clone themselves?"

"Not to worry, John," Mycroft answered calmly, "Those are twins. The Weasleys are a rather…prolific family." Before them, the children were alternately running wild and attempting to hide behind relatives. Harry certainly wasn't the only one a bit overwhelmed by the gathering. John felt a bit sorry for one little boy in particular who was being instructed quite sternly to get out there and play when he obviously wanted nothing more than a Sherlock to hide behind.

"And why are we doing this, again?" John asked, still a bit annoyed with Mycroft for inviting so many tiny terrors to what was meant to be Harry's introduction to the magical world. At this rate, they'd never get him out from behind Sherlock's legs.

"Dr. Sundberg thought Sherrinford would feel less like a freak if he knew other children who were like him," Sherlock answered unexpectedly, "Mycroft insisted upon arranging this gathering of 'approved' families and as usual could not settle for just one." Apparently being able to belittle his brother was enough incentive to break him out of his vow of silence.

Before Mycroft could respond, the old woman who had been scolding her boy into joining the other children approached them, little boy in tow.

"Hello! You must be Harry Potter's uncles!" she said, offering them her hand, "I'm Augusta Longbottom. This is Neville, my grandson. His parents were aurors, you know. They would be here now if they weren't in St. Mungo's; tortured in the line of duty."

To this she received one look of barely concealed horror, one look of bored annoyance and one look of polite fascination.

"Cousins," Sherlock answered her abruptly while John automatically accepted the hand, still trying to work out how to respond to that statement.

"Delighted to meet you Mrs. Longbottom," Mycroft said, "Why don't we let the boys play and you can come tell me about your delightful family." Though that seemed a bit tactless to John when the woman had just implied the boy's parents, presumably one of which was her own child, had been tortured, Mrs. Longbottom appeared delighted and forcibly pushed young Neville towards them, instructing him to 'play nicely like a well mannered auror's son should' before allowing herself to be led away.

Unfortunately, thanks to Augusta Longbottom's introduction, other families had finally realized that the couple lurking in the corner contained the very family they had come to meet, something they had so far avoided by letting Harry stay hidden. On the other hand, it did restore order to the room when various parents called their children into line. John was finally able to do a proper headcount and discovered it was only six children after all, four redheads all from one family. The fifth little girl was red haired as well, but obviously not attached to the woman arranging her offspring into some kind of order. If it weren't for young Neville's soft blond hair, John would begin to wonder if having red hair weren't a magical trait.

"George, Fred, Ronald, you stop that and stand here this instant!" her voice carried authoritatively across the room, "You don't see Harry Potter running about like a hooligan! Ron, you let go of your sister's hair this instant!" Then a man carrying the fifth redhead approached them and set her down next to Neville.

"Hello, nice to meet you," he announced politely, "I'm Mortimer Bones, and this is my daughter Susan."

"Dr. John Watson and this is Sherlock Holmes. Harry's feeling a bit shy, I'm afraid." John shook his hand while Sherlock continued to ignore social conventions and Harry continued to cling to his legs.

"That's alright," the man said pleasantly, "Susan can be just the same sometimes when meeting strangers." Indeed, the little girl, upon being set on the ground, had immediately latched onto her father's leg. Then the mother of four managed to hustle them all forward and offered a whirlwind introduction, not only of the children present which ranged from the three year old girl to the almost seven year old twins, but also explaining about three more who weren't there. John privately wished that she had left the twins at home as well, considering they seemed far too old when she had two much closer to Harry's age, but politely greeted them all the same.

"Well," she finished with after all that, "I can see you are Lily's nephew, same eyes, though you didn't get her red hair…well, but here I go on and on, and I'm sure the children are bored to tears. Why don't we let them get to know each other and we can…"

"I don't think that's a good idea," Sherlock interrupted, "While social interaction is important for childhood development, forcing Sherrinford to interact with…"

"What Sherlock means," John interrupted quickly, "Is that perhaps six children at once is a bit much for Harry at the moment."

"We'll keep the petrified one and the mute one. Please remove the older screechy ones." And Sherlock smiled politely, while the other adults stared at him.

"Mummy, is it really him?" the smaller redhead boy said into the silence, pulling at his mother's robe, "Why doesn't he want to play?"

"Why don't we let all the four year olds meet each other," John suggested quickly, before Mrs. Weasley could properly react to Sherlock's blunt dismissal of her children, "They'll probably get on better that way."

So somehow, between John and Mycroft, they convinced the woman to take away most of her children except for the smallest boy. It helped that the twin's obviously thought of the other children as 'babies' and that the little girl had decided to latch onto her mother with a death grip. Thankfully, the boy was not at all shy and didn't protest his mother leaving him alone with strangers. Unlike poor Neville who didn't seem to know what to do or where to hide; John had no idea what his grandmother had been thinking. As it turned out, however, Susan and Neville knew each other, and Susan's father got them both to stand calmly next to each other, holding hands.

"Why don't we all sit in a circle," John suggested after a moment of awkward standing, looking particularly at young Ronald who was attempting to peek beneath Sherlock's coat at the boy hiding there.

Harry was finally coaxed out when his hiding place agreed to sit down with the others but still insisted on sitting in Sherlock's lap, his coat arranged so he could duck under it at a moment's notice. John sat down on the floor a bit more reluctantly, even if it was his idea in the first place.

"Well," John said, once they were all sitting and staring at him; he had apparently been somehow elected as leader of this play date, though the only thing he could think of was to suggest a round of names. "My name is John and I'm a doctor. That is a Muggle healer. And…" what would interest four year olds? "And…I like…books on pirates."

"I'm Ronald Bilius Weasley," the red haired boy said next, all enthusiasm and excitement as he completely ignored that it wasn't his turn in the circle, "And I have five big brothers and one baby sister and I'm four and a half, I'm Ron, really, and I'm almost, almost five, and I like dragons, and…"

"Thank you, Ron," John interrupted, "Let's let Susan go now."

"I'm Susan and I live with my dad and I like, I like…I like unicorns."

"Very good. What about you…er…Neville?"

"…"

"His name's Neville Longbottom," Susan said, when Neville didn't do anything more but look anxiously towards the floor, "He's four years old and he lives with his grandma and he likes flowers."

"Boys don't like flowers," Ron insisted scornfully, "That's a stupid girly thing. Tell her you don't like stupid flowers, Nev!"

Neville looked up at last, and to the general surprise of the group stated, "I _do_ like flowers."

"Very good, Neville," John said, giving him a smile which the boy shyly returned, before turning to look at Sherlock. Sherlock had spent the entire time very similarly to Harry, by observing the other children closely.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes," he said to them, "I'm a consulting detective and I like solving crime." The children stared at him.

"What's a con…con…consitting dective?" Ron asked, "Is it a Muggle job?"

"A con-sult-ing de-tec-tive," Sherlock answered carefully, and with surprisingly the same patience he generally used with Harry, "is a person who is called to solve crimes for the police." The children continued to stare at him. "I catch bad people."

"Like…like an error?" Susan asked.

"A bit," Sherlock said, leaving John completely confused, until Sherlock went on, "An au-ror is like the police. I help the police."

"It's a Muggle job?" Ron asked again.

"Alright," John interrupted before the rest of their time was spent with Sherlock teaching the children exactly what it was he did, likely including graphic descriptions of crime scenes, "Now it's Harry's turn. Harry?"

To which Harry, somewhat predictably, hid beneath Sherlock's coat.

"Why's he hiding?" Ron demanded, "He's tiny. Is he a baby? Why doesn't he want to play?"

"Perhaps because he doesn't like you," Sherlock suggested, causing Ron's face to twist into something that could mean either tears or screaming at any moment.

"Some children like to be quiet," John interceded quickly, "Look how quiet Susan and Neville are being."

"I'm quiet," Ron whispered loudly, "I'm a little mouse, quiet. Do you want to play now, Harry?"

Harry, cautiously, peaked out of the coat.

"Go on, Harry," John said encouragingly, "Tell us your favorite thing. See, Susan likes unicorns and Neville likes flowers and Ron likes…er…"

"Dragons," Harry said.

"You like dragons?" John asked, but Harry shook his head.

"Honestly, John, Sherry was helping you. Ronald said he likes dragons. Very good, Sherry."

"Thank you, Harry," John said, "Can you tell us what you like, now?"

"…I'm Sherrinford Harry and I like experiments."

"No you're not; you're Harry Potter," Ron told him, as though he honestly thought Harry needed help to know his own name.

"No!" Harry answered, voice going higher pitched as he clutched tightly to Sherlock's coat, "I'm Sherrinford Harry!"

"Harry Potter!" Ron insisted.

"Sherry!" Harry answered back, crawling forward to assert himself more fully.

"Harry!"

"Sherry!"

"Harry Potter"

"Sherrinford Holmes!"

"Hey, hey!" John intruded, "Hey." Which got both boys to turn and take their argument to him.

"He's Harry Potter and he says he isn't," Ron explained, as though John hadn't been there the entire time, while Harry simply told him, "I'm Sherry Holmes."

"Ronald," Sherlock interjected, "Sherry has two names."

"But…"

"Ronald." Then Ron looked at Sherlock's stern, disapproving features, and burst into tears. At that, Harry suddenly started crying too, and turned to burry himself inside Sherlock's coat. Susan and Neville stared at them, and then Susan leaned over to pat Ron on the back, saying, "There, there."

Sherlock awkwardly made similar motions towards Harry. Both Sherlock and Neville turned identical expressions onto John, asking him to fix this.

"Well," John said, raising his voice in an attempt to be heard over the crying, "Who wants to draw?"

Afterwards, when the other children had been collected by their families, thankfully none of them crying at that particular moment, John was feeling about as worn out as Harry looked.

"Well," Sherlock said, after they let Harry add a star to his chart , after John had fallen exhausted into their bed as he tried to decide which he'd rather face again, Afghanastan or four screaming four-year-olds, after they had washed off the colors that had strayed from paper onto skin, "I think that went rather well."

Afghanistan won.


	9. Harry Potter of Baker Street Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter 9**

**Chapter 9**

Sleeping with Sherlock only happened in the most literal meaning of the word, no matter how often Mrs. Hudson came up with excuses to come by early in the morning hoping to catch them out. It wasn't meant to be a permanent arrangement. John had allowed that Harry needed his own room and Sherlock had pointed out that some level of deception concerning their marriage had to be upheld in case of social workers. Then Sherlock had agreed to rent out 221c and it was perfectly reasonable to think that the bedroom in that flat could be used. Except it wasn't as comfortable a room as Sherlock's and both men were busy with having a new child and somehow two months went by and Sherlock was no longer sleeping on the sofa and John was still not in his own room.

And it was fine. It was all fine. John liked this new family he had found himself a part of, he truly did. Somehow, with the arrival of a single boy he found himself a father (or at least father-figure), husband (more like father to a second, older child who stole the covers), surrogate son to a woman who was not their housekeeper, and brother-in-law.

The fact that he had not entirely, actually agreed to being a part of this family wasn't really relevant, because at this point if they had suddenly decided to send him away they'd have had a major fight on their hands. The truth was he had somehow become a part of Sherlock's family the moment he agreed to room with him; the arrival of Harry had only made it all more official. And he did love Harry. And Sherlock, though not in the husband sense. And Mrs. Hudson. And he…tolerated Mycroft. Having them all was truly brilliant, even if it was not where he thought he'd be at this time in his life. In many ways, it was better.

All of these truths did not change the fact that John liked sex. Sex with women. And sex was one thing he was most certainly not getting from his 'husband'.

Having a husband made talking with women rather difficult; not least because John wasn't entirely sure himself of the moral implications of cheating on a marriage in which he had made no promises and had no romantic ties. He didn't exactly have Sherlock's permission to sleep with other women, but then, Sherlock, or Mycroft rather, had never gotten John's permission to marry him in the first place. Morally speaking, John couldn't help but feel he still had the higher ground; it wasn't like he had ever agreed to spend the rest of his life celibate at Sherlock's side.

But then there was the fact that John really had devoted himself to his family. It wasn't a conscious decision; he hadn't ever sat down and thought it through and said that he had a family now and that was that. But somewhere along the way, probably shortly after Mycroft had officially named John as guardian, John had accepted the role thrust upon him. Any dating he did manage was doomed to be a casual fling or one night stand, and truthfully John wasn't comfortable with that as a long term solution. It didn't seem fair for the women and there were too many risk involved in casual sex, ranging from the usual STDs to one of Sherlock's enemies finding out about his activities, or simply the complications that could ensue with social services. There were a million reasons against John going out and picking up women.

But damn it, he wanted sex.

And then there was Sarah. He was no longer working for her or dating her, but they had still kept in touch. So when she contacted him suddenly, asking him to meet her for lunch, his common sense told him that this was a casual affair between friends during which they would catch up. After all, it had been a while. Other parts of his anatomy wanted to ignore common sense and suggest that the reasons it hadn't worked between them couldn't be all that bad and perhaps lunch could lead to something more.

Whatever his hopes in walking into the small diner, however, it was soon obvious that Sarah wasn't on the same page. For one, she seemed to both at once be trying to dissect him with her eyes and avoid looking at him completely, and not in the flirty staring through her eyelashes kind of way. It felt awkward.

"So…" she said, after John's brief and slightly pathetic attempt at small talk, asking her what she'd been up to, "Shannon tells me you're married. To Sherlock."

"Oh." John didn't know what else to say. This was true…and yet in all the important ways very much not true…and whatever hope he had had, however ridiculous and small, was shriveling up into nothing.

She still wasn't looking at him, her movements agitated and her face frozen into a polite smile as though to show how completely fine with this bit of information she was.

"And I'm happy for you, really, I am, I could see it, you know, the looks, the…I'm sure you're perfect together…"

"Sarah…Sarah," John said while she talked trying to get her to stop talking, to listen, to look at him, "Sarah!"

That did it. She was silent, her eyes turning upon him so full of something that it made him ache.

"Sarah," he said, his voice soft and gentle now that she was finally listening, "We aren't…it's not…it's just a piece of paper. I still like women, Sherlock still likes…no one, as far as I can tell."

She was still staring, her eyes wide and vulnerable. "Then why…?"

"It's, well…because of Harry." She continued to stare, her face filled with confusion.

"Because of…Harry?" she asked, frowning now.

"Yes!" John answered, pleased she finally seemed to be listening.

"You decided to form a partnership with a man as…as what…solidarity, for your gay sister?"

"Ye…wait no, no no no no no."

"Then what, John, because you're really not making any sense."

"Because of Harry _Potter_. He's Sherlock's cousin…his four year old cousin, and Harry's parents are dead and his aunt and uncle had him but they were rotten people and now Sherlock has him and Harry needed a family and I don't even know how but now I'm his family and he calls me Uncle John and now I can't leave and I'm his guardian and for that to work I had to be Sherlock's partner because, well, legal reasons."

It spewed forth in one long breath, and Sarah was still staring. John's phone beeped. Sarah was still staring. John's phone felt like it was burning a hole in his pocket; the urge to take it out and read the message, to perhaps escape this awkward conversation, was so strong that his fingers twitched. He resisted.

"So you have a son?" Sarah said at last. "You and Sherlock have a son."

"Did I never mention?" John asked. Had it really been that long since he and Sarah had talked? That she wouldn't know about Harry or Sherlock? His phone beeped again. "I…have pictures?" He pulled the phone out at last.

-Need more finger paint. And milk. Please.

"Oh god." He did not want to know. Quickly, or as quickly as he was able, he opened the list of pictures.

"See, this is Harry," he said, valiantly ignoring Sarah's shell shocked expression and the beep that told him he had another message. Sarah accepted the phone, looking closely at the little boy clutching a toy rabbit with a shy smile on his face.

"And you say he's Sherlock's…cousin?" she asked as she scrolled through images while John desperately tried to remember if there were any pictures on there he didn't want her to see. There was a surprising number of photos to consider, mostly because John wanted proof when anyone questioned Sherlock's ability to act fatherly towards a child. At the very least, they proved that the two interacted in an amicable way. The familial resemblance was also obvious, as Sarah had noted.

"Something about a son no one knew about and Sherlock's mother," John explained briefly, knowing perfectly well what Sarah was implying and ignoring it.

"And they've made you into his father?" she asked. The phone beeped again.

"I…should check that."

-What gets red and blue out of silk?

"Oh god." This time, Sarah leaned over him to read the message. She gave him a raised eyebrow.

"Finger paint experiment, apparently," he told her. She looked thoughtful.

"I've heard chloroform is good for removing paint."

"Definitely not telling him that," John answered.

The rest of lunch turned out surprisingly pleasant. John still didn't get to have sex.

Author's Note: Basically, I've had half of this written for about a month now as it refused to develop itself. And it's still being stubbornly slow about being written. So…just to show you this story isn't abandoned and that I am working on it…I've decided to post what I have so far and call it a two-parter. You'll find out Sherlock and Harry's side of that text messaging in the next bit. I'm hoping it won't take months again to get it out, but no promises as real life is kind of busy of late.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

John arrived home to what many would describe as a war zone.  John wouldn’t, but then, John had been in a war zone, and no matter how chaotic screaming four year olds can be, it doesn’t really compare.  For one thing, war zones are often quieter.  And the splashes of red one might see are not usually accompanied by blue, orange, and yellow. 

There was paint everywhere.  On the wall over the sofa mostly, where he could just make out a giant sheet had been hung up and draped over the furniture in some probable attempt to contain the madness.  It hadn’t worked.  The rainbow explosion leaked out, colors swirling together in places into a sickly brown color but mostly just in splotches and handprints all over the wall, floor, and the furniture where the sheet had pulled back.  And the children.

They were facing away from him, armed with paint brushes that they wielded like wands, covered from head to toe in colors.  Some of which looked quite deliberate, like the sun drawn on one of the little girl’s sleeves and the lines and circles adorning all their faces.  But mostly it was drippings and hand prints, a wild kaleidoscope of hues splattered over once pristine over-sized white shirts and it positively coated tiny bare feet.

“Red!   Blue!  Yellow!”  The shriek of tiny voices filled the air.  “Pink!  Pearl!”

“Pur-ple.”  And of course Sherlock was there, leading the chaos, his usually pristine clothes covered in hand prints and his face painted as though he were only another over grown child himself.

“John! Johnjohnjohnjohnjohnjohn!”  And that was all John had time to observe before a small colorful blur with familiar black hair was hurtling itself towards him and colliding into his legs.  The shouting abruptly stopped and four faces were turned towards him in the uncertain manner of the very young who had only just realized their fun might be a bit naughty right when a grown up arrived to catch them at it.  Sherlock, who had been beaming excitedly as any of the children a moment before, was now looking around the room as though only just noticing the mess they had made before his eyes turned back to John, and then down to the colorful creature currently grounding said colors deep into John’s nicer pair of trousers.

“Uncle John?”  Harry’s excited cry had trailed off into uncertainty, the small arms still wrapped tightly around him.  Absently, and still feeling a bit in shock, John found himself patting the boy’s head while stepping slowly further into the room as the small arms loosened and then released him.  When he had left this morning, everything had been perfectly normal.  There had been one child and Sherlock to look after him.  Now there were four children…and still only Sherlock to look after them.  Neville and Susan he recognized.  The other little girl only looked vaguely familiar.

“Yes, John, hello…how was your date?” Sherlock asked, all the while eyeing him carefully.  His eyes kept going down to his knees and John found himself glancing down himself, to see the blue and green handprints.  Harry finally saw himself what he had done.  His eyes opened very wide. 

There was a moment of complete calm, when every possible outcome was in perfect balance and John could see every one, from screaming and crying and Harry hiding under the sink again to angry parents and loss of control to discipline and scrub brushes and lessons learned.  And John looked down at Harry and the hand prints, and he made the only possible decision.

“Hello, Harry.”  He picked him up, spreading the paint now to his nice shirt, “It looks like you’ve been having fun.”  And he smiled.

The answering smile was worth every hour that was to come scrubbing away paint and the loss of one of his nicest suits combined.

“John,” Sherlock said, his expression still cautious but some of the earlier excitement slowly leaking back in, “We have been conducting an experiment with finger paints and ‘accidental’ glutinic discharges.”  Finger paint.  So it should wash out.  Thank God.

“Experimenting on the children?” John asked, eyebrow raised, as he slowly walked further into the room with Harry, making sure to keep his expression light.

“ _With_ the children,” Sherlock stressed.

“We make the colors change!” Neville said, his usually quiet voice exuberant.

“I’m control!” the strange girl then told him proudly, pointing down at her white shirt where he could, indeed, just make out the word ‘control’ beneath the splatters of paint.  Now that he looked closer, all the shirts had words on them.  Neville’s said ‘subject B’.

“And what’s your name, sweetheart?” John asked, kneeling in front of ‘Control’ and setting Harry back on the floor.  Harry was obviously still uncertain over this turn of events because he didn’t let go of John’s shirt.

“Licia,” the little girl answered, and promptly she held out her hand to shake his.  He took it, his eyes turning expectedly up towards Sherlock.

“Alicia Lestrade; Greg’s niece.  He had to leave suddenly, police duties, and I said it was fine.”

“Very nice to meet you, Alicia; I’m Dr. John Watson.  You can call me John.”

“Are you Harry’s other daddy?” she asked.  John blinked.  Before he could answer, Susan was whispering urgently into Alicia’s ear in what was probably meant to be quiet, her eyes wide and solemn while Neville looked on worriedly.

“They’re his uncles, Licia!  His Mommy and Daddy died in the war!”

“I’m sorry!” Alicia cried, eyes wide at this unexpected tragedy, and she threw her arms around Harry and started to cry.  Susan immediately threw her arms around Alicia, leaving Neville standing alone with his dripping paint brush, looking about two seconds away from deciding to cry himself.  Harry, for once, wasn’t crying.  He also hadn’t let go of John’s shirt, despite the unexpected assault from the two girls.

Of course it is at this moment, as the room descended once more towards chaos, that the door opened.

“Hey, sorry I…ah…” the man in the door began before trailing off as he took in the paint and the crying children.

“Uncle Greg!” Alicia wailed, disentangling herself from Harry and Susan so that she could hurl herself towards Lestrade.  John only just thought to catch her in time before Lestrade’s uniform was treated with the same design as his own trousers.

“So what’s going on?” Lestrade asked, seeming more bemused than upset at the state of his niece.  “What happened to finger painting on paper?  In the kitchen?”

“Scientific experiment.  Subjects, line up!  Control, take your place!”  And to the astonishment of John and Lestrade, the four children immediately scrambled to move into a line, after a brief confusion over whose paint brush was whose.

“I’m ‘control’!” Alicia explained once again, this time to her uncle.  All four children looked eager to show off their roles.

“Subject A, B, C, show your color,” Sherlock instructed, and Susan held up her paint brush to announce, “Red!”  A glob of red paint flew towards the sheet hung on the wall, the splatter quite a bit larger than would be expected from the amount of paint on the brush.

“Yellow!” Neville exclaimed next with a slight jump, his yellow paint exploding over the red.

“Blue!” Harry’s exclamation came almost as enthusiastically, though he was still watching John carefully for signs of disapproval.  Blue paint splashed over the sheet.

“Control?” Sherlock asked.  Alicia didn’t just have a paint brush; she had a whole array of cups in front of her, all different colors.  She grabbed a brush out of one.

“Green!” she exclaimed.  Immediately Harry and Neville stepped forward together, and with Alicia’s own enthusiastic though not particularly impressive green splatter, they both tossed their colors, creating a glob of green paint at the center.  A call for ‘purple’ from Control had Neville falling back and Susan stepping forward.  Orange, predictably, came next.  At the end of their impromptu show, the children looked at John, Lestrade, and somewhat at Sherlock, waiting for their reaction.

“That was brilliant!” John announced, mostly to the children but his eyes turned to take in Sherlock as well.

Lestrade was the only one who thought to get a picture.  Thankfully, he seemed thoroughly amused, even when it came to the prospect of how to clean everything up.

“I am sorry, John,” he said later, when they were alone in the kitchen and surveying the remaining mess from the original hand painting experience while Sherlock was still trying in the other room to convince his troupes to concentrate on disappearing the paint by magic.  Lestrade’s apology might have been more sincere if he would stop grinning, though there was a hint of tiredness and regret hiding just behind his joviality.  “I never meant to leave him alone with Alicia and Harry, let alone all four after that woman suddenly showed up and insisted those other two had a play date.  It really was an emergency.”

“I understand those,” John was quick to assure him, “And I’ve come home to worse.  Him and his bloody experiments.  At least this time there isn’t actual blood.  Paint should wash out.  Er…shouldn’t it?”

“…Right. You would think…being washable…so it says on the label.”  From the other room, a half shrieked chant was taken up led by Sherlock’s deeper voice of ‘go paint go!’.  The children were still at it when Sherlock joined them in the kitchen, looking just as paint splattered as before.  His expression was not so much guilty as artfully contrite, though he couldn’t quite hide the way his eyes still danced with interest and excitement.  It also didn’t help his attempt towards seriousness that he still had vivid painted lines drawn down his nose and over his cheeks.

“Perhaps if we attached a hose to the sink?” he suggested.

Lestrade and John looked at each other and then looked at the mastermind behind the art project.

“We?” John asked, directing his response towards Lestrade, “Do you think there is a ‘we’ in this cleanup, Greg?”

“I think that Sherlock has been doing such a good job minding the children that I’d hate to deprive him of finishing it.  Tea, John?”

“A splendid idea, Greg.  I’ll just put the kettle on.”

Sherlock huffed, looking at them with disgust. “Fine.  John, Greg, will you please help me to clean up the paint caused by my very successful experiment proving that the term ‘accidental magic’ is inaccurate and misleading even taking aside the insistence of using the term ‘magic’.”

John continued in his movements to turn the kettle on.

“What’s wrong; did your magic stop working?” Lestrade asked while clearing aside the paintings left on the table to have a place for the mugs.

“It’s all about the release of intense desires,” Sherlock explained, sounding exasperated now, though whether it was with the need to explain or the situation in general it was hard to tell, “As it turns out, small children have a much stronger desire to make colors than to make them go away.  Sherry could probably do it, but I didn’t think you’d want him worked up into a state of needing everything clean.”

“No,” John agreed quickly, “No, we’ll just have to do it the old fashioned way.”

“Really?” Sherlock asked, looking unexpectedly thrilled.

“And by ‘we’, he means ‘you’,” Lestrade interjected.  Sherlock glanced at John, waiting a second to see if he was going to contradict him and offer his help after all.  When that didn’t come, his expression fell back to sulking.

“Fine.”  He stormed back into the other room where the children were still running wild.  A moment later they heard his voice booming over theirs, calling them to order.  John hesitated, on the verge of following.

“Let him,” Lestrade insisted, putting out his hand to draw him back, “He’s done fine so far.  I never would have believed it at the beginning of all this, but he really isn’t half bad.” 

“I suppose he can’t possible make more of a mess cleaning than he did…making the mess,” John agreed, but he still hesitated.  It felt wrong to be hiding in the kitchen while Sherlock was out there doing who knows what to the children.  The kettle began to whistle.

Somehow, John managed to get through the ritual of tea making without looking out the door, not even when he heard Susan and Alicia’s indignant cry that they were girls.

“He’s probably trying to get them all in the tub together,” Lestrade reasoned calmly and without a hint of worry while they listened to Sherlock’s slightly bewildered response of ‘What does it matter?  You’re four years old.”

“Four and a half!”  “Four and three quarters!” were the responses to that.  John and Lestrade resolutely did not move to help, sitting with their backs to the living room.  They were just taking their first sips of tea when Harry found his way into the kitchen, walking up to John and tugging at his shirt for attention.

“Yes, Harry?” John asked, smiling gently.  The boy was damper than he had been before but still covered in paint.  He looked anxious.

“I clean?” he asked, twisting John’s shirt in his hand while he stared at him.

“Sorry?” John asked, confused, reaching down to pull the boy into his lap. “What’s wrong, Harry?”

“I clean?” the boy asked again anxiously, twisting around so that he could look at John’s face.  Sherlock appeared in the door suddenly as though at a run, though he stopped abruptly when he saw them.

“Lost someone?” Lestrade asked with a gentle smile over the cup he was nursing in his hands.  Beyond him, they could still hear the other children screaming.

“No, of course not,” Sherlock answered, and after sending a surprisingly soft smile towards John and Harry, he backed out of the room, scowling again.  John barely noticed.  Whatever was going on in the other room, John had stopped listening to try and work out what was upsetting Harry.  The boy still hadn’t answered properly, now twisting his own shirt in his hands.

“I’m sorry, Harry, I don’t understand,” John told him.  “What do you want.  Do you want to be clean?”

“I…yes?  I…can clean paint?  And get star?”

“Do you want a star for cleaning the paint?” John asked, face wrinkled in confusion, before he finally understood.  One of Harry’s goals on his wall chart was to not clean except for putting away his toys.  And now suddenly they were telling him to help clean the living room.  John considered for a moment how to respond.  “Did you help make the mess?” he asked at last.

“…Maybe?”  Harry was watching him closely.

“When you help make a mess, then you help to clean it up.  And then you get a star.”

Harry considered this.

“I not bad?”

“Never,” John insisted, his arms involuntarily tightening around the small boy.

Lestrade cleared his throat, looking slightly embarrassed to be sitting there at such an intimate moment, though his eyes were shining.  “Perhaps we’ve made Sherlock stew long enough.” He suggested, setting down his mug.  John nodded but wasn’t quite able to bring himself to put Harry down.  He carried him instead, something Harry seemed content to let him do for the moment, more than content if the grip around his neck was anything to go by.

They walked into the next room.  And found it amazingly spotless.

Sherlock looked ridiculously smug despite the colored lines still covering his face as he took down the faintly stained sheet to reveal pristine wallpaper and an unblemished sofa. Around him,  three children inspected their clean skin and white shirts, unmarked except for the labels Sherlock had given them.  Mrs. Longbottom was also there in a ridiculous hat with her wand still held out.

“There you are, Harry, dear,” she said, before waving her wand again.  Something wet and cold washed over them and Harry gave a surprised gasp before hiding his face in John’s shoulder.  It was the bad shoulder and John gave a soft ‘oof’ but otherwise gave no notice. Mrs. Longbottom frowned.  The paint covering Harry from head to toe and the stains on John’s clothes had washed clear away, but there were still smears of paint where John had gotten it on his hands and one streak of blue across his jaw.

“Interesting,” Sherlock said, “the glutinium energy is able to affect our clothes but not our skin.”

“Neville, Susan, where are your clothes?” Mrs. Longbottom demanded sharply, and the two children stopped inspecting themselves to look guiltily around for their misplaced items.

“I kept them safe,” Sherlock answered for them, his tone equally as sharp before he turned and marched up to Harry’s room.  He came back swiftly with a bundle of clothes and shoes.  There was more confusion while they all sorted out whose was whose and then again when the girls refused to change with the boys.

Still, they were all sorted in the end.  And if Alicia somehow ended up with a shirt with hearts that lit up when she smiled and turned black when she cried while Susan’s pink shirt now clashed horribly with her red hair…well, they each insisted it was the same shirt they had come in.

“And what do you say now?” Mrs. Longbottom demanded to her grandson.

“Thank you for having us Mr. Sherlock and Dr. John,” Neville said dutifully, his eyes down on his toes.

“It was lots of fun being a expertment!” Susan added, “And playing with Sherry and Licia.”

“Experiment,” Harry said unexpectedly, lifting his head up at last.  Sherlock stopped scowling towards Mrs. Longbottom to beam at Harry.

“Say goodbye to Harry Potter, Neville, Susan.  Susan’s father is expecting her home soon.”

“Oh, do you plan these things with the parents?” Sherlock asked, sounding perfectly pleasant and innocent, “I thought it was usual to take children about without plan or asking first before leaving them with near strangers.”

“Goodbye, Sherry, goodbye Licia!” Susan and Neville said not quite in tandem while Mrs. Longbottom huffed indignantly.

“Good day,” John offered pleasantly, for once not caring to apologize for Sherlock, and the old woman finally left with Neville and Susan in tow.

“I suppose we had better be going too,” Lestrade said, after they were gone, “Thank you again, Sherlock.  You did well.”

“Of course I did,” Sherlock answered, but he couldn’t quite contain his surprised grin or the way he stood just the slightest bit taller.

“Well,” John said, when it was just the three of them, “That worked out well.  Though it didn’t all come out of the sheet, I see.”

“I think it was the glutinic force behind the paint,” Sherlock answered, studying the stained sheet with a thoughtful expression. 

“Yes.  And all that remains is to finish cleaning.  Right Harry?”

“I clean mess and get star,” Harry answered authoritatively, no longer hiding in John’s shoulder.

“What mess?” Sherlock demanded, “It’s all clean now!  Or do you want me to wash you?”

“The kitchen, Sherlock,” John reminded him, “There’s still paint all over the kitchen.”

“We clean mess,” Harry said again, squirming in John’s hold until he set him down.  Back on the floor, Harry determinedly marched up to Sherlock and grabbed at his hand, tugging at him.

“Oh, very well,” Sherlock said with an exaggerated sigh, “We mess, we clean.”

John gave them a good five minutes and took the time to wash the paint from his own hands and face before he gave in and joined them.

He let Sherlock walk around for the rest of the evening before pointing out he still had paint on his face.

All in all, it wasn’t a bad day.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

If John had known the chaos that was to follow his simple observation, he probably would have quietly taken Harry to an ophthalmologist while Sherlock was out.  On the other hand, most of the events would probably have happened anyway in due time, he quite liked Sophia in the end, and he honestly can’t regret discovering Muggle Mounters.  Though he could have done without the snakes.  Or the nightmares.  Or the abrupt introduction to the darker side of magic.  But of course, he knew none of what was about to occur, and so he made his statement out loud and without any thought to the consequences.

“I think Harry needs glasses.”

“Hmm?”  Sherlock looked up from whatever he was busy with on John’s computer to first stare blankly at John, and then to focus his attention on where Harry was drawing at his feet.  At least he had been drawing the last time Sherlock had looked, coloring madly over blobs and stick figures that probably meant a lot to the artist but otherwise required a detective to determine what they were meant to be.  Now he was writing.

Harry was even worse at writing than he was at drawing.  Usually, he only pretended and made scribbles.  Or he copied and created wriggly, lopsided, often backwards or upside down letters.  John always praised such attempts profusely, letting Harry ‘read’ it to him.  Sherlock found such attempts fascinating.

This time, Harry had taken a more active approach.  Sherlock watched as he studiously and determinedly formed a squiggly letter.  Then he would jump up, run over to the wall and stare hard at Sherlock’s Rules.  Then he would run back to his writing, and studiously copy down another letter.

Sherlock began to see what John meant.  The wall chart was large, meant to be read easily from anywhere in the room.  Harry should have been able to copy letters from where he was sitting.  Now that John had mentioned it, Sherlock remembered several incidences where he saw Harry squinting or going close to an object to look at it. 

Sherlock was so lost in thought that he didn’t realize Harry had finished until the boy was suddenly thrusting a piece of paper at him.  Harry was flushed from running back and forth but there was a proud glow about him as he showed his work.

It wasn’t all writing after all.  Mostly it was a drawing.  There was a stick man inside a scribbled black blobby thing, a thing that looked like a sun, though Sherlock suspected some of the ‘rays’ were meant to be arms and legs and some were hair, and a balloon looking head with a three legs attached, or possibly four but two overlapped.  The picture was signed SHAreRY.  In hindsight, Sherlock teaching him to write ‘Sherry’ and then John insisting on re-teaching him ‘HARRY’ was probably a bad idea.

Harry often signed his pictures.  The writing at the top was unexpected, and explained the need to run to the wall chart.  It said, ‘Sherlock’s’.  More or less.  Some letters ran into the others, and none were drawn in a steady hand, but they all went the right direction and the spelling was perfect.

“Do you like it?” Harry asked, after watching Sherlock inspect the picture.  He crawled into Sherlock’s lap to point out the highlights of his masterpiece.  “That’s you,” he said, pointing at the stick figure, “And that’s me,” here he was pointing at the balloon, “And that’s John!”  He was the sun, of course.  “And this says ‘family’,” here he was pointing at some meaningless scribbles, “So we’re all holding hands.  And it’s to Sherlock, love Sherry.  Do you like it?”

For some inexplicable reason, Sherlock felt something caught in his throat that made it hard to answer.  So he hugged the young artist and smiled instead and looked towards John to make sure he wasn’t completely ruining positive reinforcement. He can still remember the disappointed frown John had given him the other day when he told Harry the cookies he had baked with Mrs. Hudson were too dry.  John didn’t look disappointed this time though.  He had a calm, warm expression that somehow made the lump in his throat feel better and worse at the same time.

“I’m putting this picture in my Remember Book,” Sherlock managed to say at last.  Harry beamed.  Then he went to draw a picture for John.  John went back to reading his novel.  And Sherlock went back to the laptop where he immediately started to research eye problems.

“Can’t you use magic to just…poof his eyesight better?” John asked later when Sherlock finally came to him for his doctorly expertise in locating a good ophthalmologist.

Sherlock’s response was to mumble ‘glutinic energy’ before giving him a weighty tome entitled ‘ _Genetics VS Environment_ ’ which turned out to be surprisingly interesting from a doctor’s standpoint.  He was deep into the chapter devoted to hairdo jinx malfunctions and imagining Sherlock with pink roses for hair when Sherlock came to see if he’d found an eye examiner yet.  Then Sherlock huffed in annoyance and flipped the pages to the section relevant to eyes.  

The short answer was that magic can’t permanently altar genetics.  The long answer was something to do with every object’s inherent knowledge of self.  John almost thought he understood when Sherlock yet again interrupted, holding Harry up into his face so that Harry could say, “Please stop being boring, Uncle John.”

Sherlock regretted teaching Harry to say that rather quickly.  John found an ophthalmologist.

It was after John had scheduled the appointment that events began to escalate, though it all seemed perfectly innocent at first.  John had, naturally, decided on a time when he’d be free to go with Harry to the appointment.  Sherlock’s schedule could be erratic after all, and it wasn’t the sort of thing to foist onto a babysitter.  But then Indira got sick and John was asked to take her shift and it was only after he said yes and went to write it into his schedule that he realized it meant he couldn’t take Harry.  Luckily, Sherlock remained perfectly free.  Or unluckily.  Depending upon one’s perspective.

The day of the check up started out perfectly normal.  Sherlock spent the early morning hours in 221 C working on some experiment or other so John spent his time clearing the table of bits of glass where Sherlock had been teaching Harry about bending light the night before and then made breakfast.  Harry and John ate.  Then Harry was worried about Sherlock starving so they made a plate for him together.

John checked on the door to 221 C and saw it still had the DANGER 4 sign up.  That meant he was working with something volatile, and any distractions, up to and including knocking on the door, could lead to explosions.  Huffing in annoyance, John sent a text and went to see if Mrs. Hudson could keep an eye on Harry until Sherlock finished his experiment.

She could.  John went to work.  He spent the rest of the morning amongst crying sick children, hypochondriacs, and diseased adults.  It was a nice change from the chaos of home.  He sent two more texts to Sherlock before he finally got an answer.  No, Sherlock had not blown up the flat, Mrs. Hudson was exaggerating.  Yes, he remembered Sherry’s appointment.  Then things got a bit busy and it wasn’t until he broke for lunch that he had a chance to check his messages.

-Yes I have the address.  You gave it to me.  And wrote it on a note.  And told Mrs. Hudson.  And Sherry. 

-We have arrived.  Dr. Prewett must be color blind. Only explanation for color scheme.

-Help.  Am trapped inside rainbow vomit.  Tiny humans surrounding me.  Need backup.

-Tiny humans with mums.

-Sherry was good.  Doctor is an idiot.  Color blind eye doctor.  Glasses ready in a week.

-Uncle Mycroft stuck his nose in.  Glasses ready in one hour.  We need an owl.

And then the texts ended.  John read over the last text once, and then again.  The last sentence still didn’t make any sense.  He finished the last two hours of Indira’s shift with much less calm than when he had started.

Finally he started for home.  He wondered if Harry was already wearing his new glasses.  He hoped that Sherlock had helped to choose some nice frames.  And he really really really hoped that Sherlock had not found someplace to get an owl. 

Sherlock hadn’t.  Yet.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12 (otherwise known as chapter 11 part 2)

“John! Johnjohnjohnjohnjohn!” 

There was a hyper torpedo at the door to greet him when John got home.  A hyper torpedo wearing large round glasses with dark frames.  They looked…well…John would be lying if he said he’d have chosen them himself.  They seemed to dominate Harry’s small face.  John bravely attempted a smile and prepared to lie.

“Look!  I have spy glasses, like Sherlock, and he said Sherlock needs some and Sherlock says he’s an idiot, and he had an owl so I got a disguise!”

This was all said in one breath and John was only halfway sure he’d heard everything correctly. Arms still full of Harry, he looked at Sherlock and waited for him to translate.

“Do you like the frames I picked out?” was all Sherlock said, his expression innocent and guileless and completely wrong from how he looked when he was actually being clueless.  Sherlock had chosen hideous frames on purpose.  He was up to something.

“Do you like them, Uncle John?”  Harry’s expression, on the other hand, expressed an odd mixture of barely contained giggles, anxiety, and sly interest.  Correction, _they_ were up to something.  But Harry still wanted a real answer.

“Well…” John answered, “They are very…round.  Are these the frames you wanted, Harry?”

“They are no-tice-ab-le,” Harry answered, carefully pronouncing the long word.

“That they are.  Very very noticeable.  Just what I was thinking.  Sherlock…why do Harry’s glasses need to be noticeable?”

“If you had listened to Sherry earlier, you would know exactly why.”

“Five, Sherlock.”

“Necessary, John.”

John hesitated, finally taking the time to stop reacting to everything and actually think.  There was only one reason Sherlock could expect John to waiver the ‘his name is Harry’ rule.

“…We’re going to the magical world…and…the glasses are…to stick out?”

“Brilliant, John!” Sherlock actually looked delighted, rather than sarcastic, as he said this.  He always did like it when people managed to think something out for themselves.  Unfortunately for Sherlock’s delight, John had to keep talking.

“You want him to be noticeable?”  Then, of course, came the expected ‘how can people be so stupid’ look.

“Of course not.  I want his _glasses_ to be noticeable.  A prominent and disposable feature.”  Harry tugged at John’s shirt, pulling his attention back to him.

“My name is Sherrinford Watson Holmes,” he told him, beaming proudly.  And for the first time since the whole name business had begun, John suddenly found himself thinking that the name change wasn’t so bad.  Smiling softly, John shifted Harry’s weight so he could offer him his hand.

“Hello, Sherry.  My name is Dr. John Watson.  Nice to meet you.”  Harry hid his pleased giggle in John’s shirt collar, letting John shake his hand vigorously.

“Alright, Sherry,” Sherlock said, looking ridiculously pleased at the way this was going, “Let’s show John your real glasses.”

The new glasses were nice.  Slimmer than the monstrous pair Harry had first been adorned with, though sturdy enough that they wouldn’t easily twist or break.  They were flatter on top, rather than the perfect circles of the first pair, and green rather than black.  They fit his face well.  They also made his eyes look huge somehow, and twice as vulnerable while Harry waited on John’s verdict.

“Brilliant.  You look sharp, Harry.”  At John’s soft but genuine assertion, the vulnerability melted away into excitement once more.  No doubt, Sherlock had been fuelling him for the last hour or so on a mixture of sugar and stories of the adventures that awaited them once John got home.  John knew he really should ask about the owls.  Why did Sherlock want an owl, why did their ophthalmologist have an owl, where would they even find one?

What he actually said in the end was, “So, Harry…what was this about Sherlock needing glasses?”  Revenge was sweetest when it was well deserved.

It took them another hour to get ready for the Magical World, during which Sherlock expertly applied prosthetic skin over Harry’s scar (harder to accidently remove than make up alone), Sherlock produced his glasses monstrosity to match Harry’s disguise, except of course the glass in his wasn’t meant to correct his vision (because he did NOT need glasses, John, and what kind of eye doctor can’t tell the difference between bad eyesight and dysle…never mind.  John never did get the full story there.) and the story about the owls was finally explained.

“Dr. Prewett has an owl,” Harry told him gleefully, his eyes huge behind his new glasses, while Sherlock attempted to apply makeup over the fake skin on his forehead, “His name is Gideon and he’s brown but also gray and orangy and dark brown but not black, but almost all the way brown and he has big eyes like my new glasses!  And Dr. Prewett says he is a postman but he’s a postbird and he’s family…”

“A familiar,” Sherlock corrected, “Now turn your head to the left…other left…still other left…thank you.  Hold still.”

“He’s a famil…family familiar, like a pet, but he isn’t a pet because he’s smart and knows every single place everyone lives inside his head.  And animals can be famil…family…”

“Familiars, now tilt, and stay still.”

“Fam-il-yars, and it means they are like family, like you and me and Sherlock and Grandma Martha…”

“Who?”

“He means Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock.”

“Oh…right.  Tilt the other way now, Sherry…and stop.  Good.”

“…And Uncle Mycroft, and Aunt Harry, and Uncle Greg, and everyone!  And we need more family, and owls are beautiful and they can be postmen and glutinic people have magic owls, and being glutinic is good because people are all different, and we need an owl.”

“I see.”  John suspected he ought to be protesting somewhere in all these preparations to go find an owl.  Gaining a pet, or a familiar, or a living specimen for an experiment, or whatever this owl was meant to be was the sort of thing that really should be discussed beforehand.  He really shouldn’t just give in.

“John,” Sherlock said quietly, his voice serious, “John…it’s part of his community.  It’s…we wanted him…I mean…they have bonds.  I just wanted to know…it _is_ for Harry.”

Harry tugged at Sherlock’s sleeve, then when he had his attention said, “Sherry,” quite sternly, in exactly the same tone John used when Harry started to dart ahead too close to the traffic when they walked somewhere.

“I stand corrected,” Sherlock said with a smile, while John resisted the urge to bang his head against a wall.  And then Harry’s eyes were on him, wide and innocent.

“Please?”

Half an hour later they were on their way to Diagon Alley.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Harry was not wearing a hat.  In fact, his hair was combed back, as much as his hair ever allowed itself to be combed back, to prominently display his scar-free forehead.  Sherlock had also managed to add red tones to Harry’s hair with something from a spray bottle that he assured John would wash right out.  John made sure to bring an umbrella.  And one of the weird wizard kid’s hats that Sherlock had picked up for Harry on one of his many outings.

Sherlock used the spray in his own dark hair as well, and donned his own pair of glasses, the ones with just clear glass rather than prescription, and threw his cloth bag over his shoulder.  John was left to wear his normal clothes with his normal hair and no glasses.  He felt strangely disappointed, for all that he didn’t really want to play dress up.

“Right,” Sherlock rehearsed them while Harry bounced up and down, alternately running to look at himself in the mirror and then running back to the door to see if they were ready to go, “Sherry Watson Holmes is our son.  Well, my biological son, your adopted one.”

“What’s bio-logical?” Harry asked breathing heavily and taking a moment to rest between his running back and forth.

“A biological son is when the mum and dad make a baby, instead of adopting.”

Harry considered this.  “How do you make a baby?”

Sherlock frowned.  Not the disturbed or terrified sort of frown most parents get when faced with the prospect of explaining sex to their children.  More considering, as though he were trying to find the best way to explain.

“I’ll explain that later,” John said quickly, “So…what kind of owl do you think we should get?”

Suitably distracted, Harry started on about how owls can be big or small and maybe a small owl would be good because Harry’s small, but a big owl can carry big things like packages, and all the colors owls are and how they see in the dark.

“You’re a Muggle, John,” Sherlock went on, “But I’m a wizard so young Sherry is a half-blood wizard.”

“Sorry…I’m a what?”

“Good…act ignorant, that’s perfect!  Muggle is the ridiculous term that glutinium sensitives have created to label those who aren’t sensitive.  Normally, non-sensitives aren’t meant to know about glutinium or their culture…it’s in their laws.  But being married to me, and having a son in that culture gives you a free pass into it.”

“Right…wait, you’re a wizard?  How are you going to pull that off?  You’re no more sensitive to magic than I am!”

“Glutinic energy, John!” Sherlock answered, “Ready, Sherry?”  And he threw one final item into his bag and swept out the door, Harry bounding at his heels.  By the time John had locked up and caught up with them, Sherlock had already managed a bit of his usual everyday magic to hail a cab.

John’s first impression of Diagon Alley was that it was a bit touristy.  It looked as done up and fancy as a theme park and John half expected to see a ticket taker charging exorbitant prices and signs saying ‘this way to splash mountain!’.

“Daddy!  Daddy daddy dad dad dad!” Harry exclaimed excitedly from Sherlock’s shoulders as he reached out a hand to pat at John’s head for his attention.  Harry had taken to Sherlock’s instructions to playact that Sherlock and John were his fathers with great exuberance.  John wasn’t sure how he felt about that.  It gave him a strange feeling, something like pride mixed with guilt, like he had been blessed with something that wasn’t his to take.  Not to mention Harry’s excitement over it made John suspect that Harry didn’t really understand.  He knew that they would need to all talk together about it.  Later.  For now, they had an owl to track down.  John still wasn’t sure how this was his life.

The street is bustling with afternoon shoppers going about their business as they pass shop after shop offering the magical, the strange, and the just plain bizarre.  Harry continued to babble at them, trying to see everything at once from his perch.  Sherlock had a relaxed, indulgent look on his face that he wore like a mask along with the glasses and red tint to his hair.  A few people did glance at them but none of them stared or shrieked ‘it’s him!  Harry Potter!’; John garnered more stares in his regular clothes than either of his companions did.  A few stares bordered on rude, in fact, and John felt himself growing uneasy.

“Here we are!” Sherlock announced a short walk later, “Magical Menagerie.  What do you say, Sherrinford?  Shall we stop here?”

“Yes!” Harry answered, bouncing excitedly on Sherlock’s shoulders.

“Alright, down you go,” Sherlock said, swinging Harry off his shoulders and onto the ground, and together they went inside.

They left the bustle of the street for a new sort of cacophony as they were greeted by a veritable zoo of animals.  Most of them didn’t look particularly magical at first glance, just the regular pet shop fare.  At second glance, however, many of the animals were behaving very oddly.  At least, John was fairly certain that normal mice didn’t do circus tricks.  And while cats were always good at vanishing, John had never seen one actually go transparent.  Before John could notice more, a small man darted from the back of the store.  He had kitten riding on his head and a scoop in his hand and he looked rather harassed.

“Welcome,” he gasped out, sounding rather out of breath, “To Magical Menagerie.  How can I help you?”

“Yes, hello,” Sherlock answered with a smile, his mannerisms so completely not his own that John found it hard not to stare at him to make sure John hadn’t accidently wandered away and joined up with a stranger, “We’re interested in owls, please.”

“Just through here,” the man told them, “Now, if you don’t mind, I need to finish feeding the cheshires before they decide to find their own way around the wards again and feed themselves.  Again.”

In a back room of the shop there was a whole wall of owls.  They came in all sizes and colors and nothing about them, despite their cages, suggested they were domestic animals.  Wide eyes turned to stare at the intruders, a soft murmur of hoots the scrape of talons filled the room.

“What do you think, Sherry?” Sherlock asked.  Harry didn’t answer.  He was clinging tightly to Sherlock’s leg, and when John bent down to look closer he was startled to find that he looked on the verge of tears.

“Harr…” Sherlock nudged him with his elbow.  Hard.  John managed not to react by concentrating on the way Harry was staring at the owls with large watery eyes.  “Sherry?  Are you alright?”  Perhaps he was scared.  Perhaps they wouldn’t be including a pet owl to their family any time soon.  Harry mumbled something into Sherlock’s cloak.  

Frowning now, John bent over and picked him up.

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock asked, his eyes darting from Harry to John, as though John might understand.

“Too small,” Harry said, or perhaps something more, he was hard to understand.

“Too small?  What’s too small?” Sherlock asked, his eyes again darting to John, but John had no idea what Harry could mean.  Surely it was not that the owls were too small; that one in the middle cage looked almost as big as Harry.  Perhaps he meant himself?

“Cages too small,” Harry managed to tell them, “Why?”

“Oh…ah…look, H…Sherry, the cages aren’t small to be mean they’re…they’re to make the owls feel safe and secure.  Owls sleep in the daytime, remember?  I’ll bet they go out and fly all over London at night.”  John had no idea if that was true.  He doubted the shopkeeper used small cages for any other reason than to conveniently cram as many animals into his shop as possible, but perhaps these really were just the show cages and there really was plenty of space for the animals.  Either way, Harry didn’t look convinced.  And then a thought occurred to John.

“Sherlock,” he hissed, trying to somehow speak without Harry hearing, despite the fact that the boy was in his arms and watching them both intently, “Where are we going to keep this owl?”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock answered, still looking a bit lost and worried.

“I mean is it…safe…to let it fly free?  They’re wild animals, Sherlock.”

“Familiars,” Sherlock corrected, “They’re smarter than wild owls.  It’ll be fine, John.”  He offered John a careful smile, the sort that usually meant please let me get away with whatever I’m trying to get away with.  John sighed.

“But, but, but,” Harry said, still snuggled in John’s arms, “But they can’t fly.”

“They like to sleep now, Sherry,” Sherlock told him authoritatively, “They don’t want to fly.”  As if to contradict him, a cage holding no less than three tiny owls no bigger than John’s fist suddenly careened in wild and excited flight about their cage.  “And the ones that really want to fly right now are able to,” Sherlock said without missing a beat as he indicated towards the excited mini flyers, “See?”

Harry looked, a suspicious and stubbornly unconvinced look still on his face.  It slowly dissolved though into pleased giggles as the owls continued to bound enthusiastically in convoluted circles.  John was almost certain he saw one of them do a flip midair.  It was as though they were showing off.  Other owls ruffled their feathers, puffing up their chests, clicking their beaks against their bars.

“What do you think, John?” Sherlock asked, “They’re small enough not to get in the way and young Sherrinford seems to like them.”

“Er…” John said.  He had a sudden vision of them taking all three and could just see them bouncing around the flat like excitable little terriers with the ability to fly.  “Perhaps one a bit less…exuberant?”  And as though a switch had been flipped, all three birds sudden settled onto separate perches, looking the very picture of calm.  Harry clapped his hands.

Suddenly, from somewhere above them, a shadow swooped.  John jumped, twisting his body defensively to shield Harry while Sherlock almost seemed to materialize bodily in front of them.  The owls in their cages were screaming wildly, hooting and screeching and grabbing at their bars.  All but one.  The one that had just somehow flown freely and landed on top of the tiny owls; cage.  It wasn’t a large owl, though it seemed huge compared to the ones beneath it.  It’s face was white and its wings were a deep brown, some almost red in color, and it hooted softly, almost gently.  John stared at the owl, then glanced up where he could see one of the cages with its door hanging open.

“See, Sherry,” John said, his voice low in case it might spook this unexpectedly not caged wild animal in front of them, “They can fly if they want to.”  The other owls seemed to glare at him reproachfully from behind their bars.  Harry was squirming to see better with Sherlock still blocking the way and John holding him sideways, almost having turned them around completely towards a row of cages holding bats and faintly glowing lizards.

“Hello there,” Sherlock said to the creature perched almost regally before him, his voice soft and strange, “Now, how did you get out?”  Predictably, the owl did not suddenly obtain speech and start talking.  It did fluff  up its feathers, causing Sherlock to jump, before holding out one talon as though to shake hands.  A single long claw scratched sharply at the air.  “Oh,” Sherlock whispered, just as though it had answered, “You are a clever one.  Sherry, come and see.”

“Sherlock,” John answered sharply, still eying the wild creature warily even as Harry reached towards it.  Before John could explain exactly why he wasn’t taking Harry one step closer to the owl, the door opened.

“Oh, not again!” the shopkeeper exclaimed from the doorway, more exasperated than dismayed, “She’s always getting out, that one.  Terribly sorry but they do like to show off when customers come in.”

“Is she…is it safe?” John asked.  The shopkeeper held out his arm and the bird flew to land on his wrist.  Then he glanced at John and Harry.

“New to wizard’s owls, are you?” he asked with a kindly smile, “Well you don’t have to worry about this wicked little devil here.  Quite maternal, owls are; she wouldn’t harm a child for anything.  Here, boy, do you want to touch her?”

Still hesitant, John finally gave into Harry’s squirming and moved them closer, though not close enough to touch.  Sherlock gave an impatient huff and strode over, reaching out his hand.  It went against John’s instinct to let him, to not call him an idiot for always wanting to touch things and drag him away.  The owl stood perfectly still as Sherlock’s fingers med its feathers.  It’s eyes were trained on John, almost as though it were trying to say, ‘see?  I won’t bite’. 

“Daddy, daddy, can I see?  Please?”

It was probably the daddy that did it.  Or the please.  Or the way his ridiculously huge glasses magnified his puppydog eyes times a million.  But finally John gave in and approached the owl.  He watched as Harry slowly, reverently, reached out his hand.  The owl stood just as still for him as it had for Sherlock.

“It’s soft,” Harry told them, his voice filled with awe.  Then in a decided tone of voice he told the bird, “Softy.”  At least that’s probably what he meant to say, it sounded more like ‘soffy’.

“Sophie,” Sherlock said, smiling gently at the two of them, “She’s perfect.”

Almost as one, Sherlock, Harry, and the owl all turned their heads to look hopefully at John.  John tried to imagine this owl loose in the house.  Clawing at the furniture.  Landing among Sherlock’s experiments.  Hooting all night long.  Social services coming to find a wild animal living in their house.  Then he looked at Harry.  Then at the owl.  He swore that owl had an identically fragile and hopeful expression in its far too intelligent gaze.

“Right,” he said, “Sophie it is.”

The shopkeeper happily set about making sure they had a good cage (for transport, they assured a worried Harry, not to live in always), a perch (see, she won’t be trapped on this), food, some toys, and a book on the basics of owls and familiars that looked as though it were written with a five year old in mind, full of bright pictures and large lettering.  John would have thought the book fine if the shopkeeper hadn’t kept talking like he thought it would be a great help for John, rather than Harry.  Sherlock glanced at the book and turned his nose up at it.

Sophie hooted happily, willingly getting into her new cage and puffing up her chest.  The other owls had quieted, and John tried not to look at the tiny owls where they were huddled in a sad, depressed mass.  Sherlock eyed them.

“Perhaps I should get a few more,” he suggested quietly, “I have a few experiments that could benefit from extra, expendable specimens.  The tiny owls gave tiny alarmed hoots and darted as one to the back of their cage where they huddled, trembling.

“Come along, Sherlock,” John answered sternly.  Sherlock gave one last reluctant sigh and followed them from the room to finalize the purchase.

It was as they were almost done that the real trouble started.

 


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

The trouble started like this, though it didn’t look much like trouble at the time.

Sherlock was handing over the outdated coin currency when the door opened to let in more customers.  That in and of itself might have been fine, despite the way the aristocratic man looked down his nose in John’s direction.  It was his offspring that started the real trouble.

The boy was around Harry’s age, though bigger, with shockingly white hair.  He followed his father into the shop and immediately took note of the other child.  Normally, Harry would probably be staring back, half hidden behind John while he looked this new arrival over.  But this time, he was too busy stroking Sophie’s soft feathers and telling her all about their new home while John flipped through the owl book and tried not to jump whenever one of the still pictures suddenly decided to swoop.

So while Sherlock discussed owl food with the shop keeper and the newcomer glared impatiently towards them as he waited for service, the little boy strode with confident determination towards Harry.

“Hello,” said the boy without a sign of shyness about him, “I’m Draco of the House of Malfoy.  I’m four years old.  Do you like snakes?  Father wants a boring cat but he said I can look at snakes.”

Harry listened uncertainly, not answering and still stroking Sophie through the bars.

“Come on,” Draco insisted, grabbing Harry’s hand, “Grownups are boring.  The snakes are over here.”

Harry resisted Draco’s pull, looking towards John for signs of disapproval.  Finally Draco let out an exasperated noise and said, “Fine, I’ll go by myself.” And he did just as he said, marching away to where a line of tanks held an assortment of serpents.  Harry watched him go, one hand clutching at the cloth of John’s pants.  John looked at where Sherlock continued to question the harried shopkeeper with his owl questions and the other man stood waiting and staring down his nose at them.

“Do you want to look at the snakes, Harry?” John asked, seeing that they might be a while yet, and interacting with other children was always a thing to be encouraged, even if this Draco wouldn’t have been John’s first choice.

Instead of answering, Harry turned away from the other boy and the snakes and turned back to Sophie again, reaching out to resume stroking her through the bars while still clutching tightly to John with his other hand.  He talked to her more quietly than before, almost like he was sharing a secret.

Then Sherlock finished buying owl food and accessories, and the other man took over the shopkeeper’s attention with imperious demands and they left the store. 

The trouble continued when, instead of going straight home, John suggested they stopped at a shop.  The sign in front of it offered ‘fire cream’ which sounded a bit odd but looked, from the accompanying pictures, to be a form of ice cream that was served hot instead of cold.  In fact, that was exactly what they received when John ordered a scoop of ‘Dragon’s Blood’ (having been assured that it was not, in fact, made from blood and that the flavor was actually a delightful blend of spicy fire with a touch of vanilla), Sherlock settled upon a scoop of ‘honeycake delight’ and Harry, after long and cautious consideration, agreed to the enthusiastic server’s suggestion of a scoop of ‘pumpkin pastry’.

Their treats were served piping hot in a bowl with whipped cream, a roasted chestnut on top and a cinnamon stick sticking out of one side.

“You know, I could grow to really like magic,” John remarked as he took a bite of what had all the texture and appearance of ice cream yet warmed him straight through. 

“Glutinic energy,” Sherlock insisted, eating happily for once as he attempted to deduce where the honey flavoring his fire cream was harvested from by taste alone.

Harry hummed happily, looking almost overwhelmed with riches as he alternatively took a bite of fire cream, checked on Sophie (who had her own treat from a newly opened bag of owl treats; it was that or Harry trying to share his fire cream with her), and took his new glasses off and on as he took in the world through them, obviously marveling at being able to see.

And so it was that they were still there when the father and son from the shop walked by and the father grudgingly agreed to his little boy’s loud demands of a treat for being so good.

“One scoop, Draco, and you will behave or I’ll leave you in the nursery with the elves the next time I go out.”

And the blond pair took a table one over, the father demanding mulled wine and his offspring eagerly asking for pumpkin pastry.  And like Harry, it turned out that Draco also had a new pet.  His pet was not an owl.

More customers arrived, a boisterous group dressed in an odd combination of jumpers, jeans, and robes.  They were also carrying brooms, and several had pointy hats.  They looked, in fact, rather like they were playing dress up as witches but didn’t bother with the full ensemble.  John, who had been looking towards Draco’s new pet with some trepidation, saw his father give the newcomers an even darker, haughtier look than he had given them in the pet shop.   The group didn’t seem to notice or care, exclaiming over the choices of fire cream with obvious delight.

“Father,” Draco said, also staring at the newcomers, “Why do they have baby brooms?”  His voice was loud and carried, but though several of the newcomers glanced over, none looked offended.  If anything, they gave the small boy the indulgent sort of look that small children often receive when they do something generally considered rude in polite society.

“Don’t look at them, Draco, and eat your fire cream” his father answered sternly.

“But why?” Draco continued to demand, still staring though he did obediently scoop up another mouthful of his treat.

“They are Muggles and beneath our attention; do not honor them with your gawking.”  Draco’s eyes went wide and, if anything, he stared at them harder than ever until his father’s cane banged against the floor, dragging his attention away.  “Do not make me regret this reward, Draco.” 

The newcomer’s looks were less indulgent now, several of them giving Malfoy senior annoyed glares, one going so far as to make a face at him, sticking his tongue out.  That was wasted, though, as after his initial look, the man had taken his own advice and was determinedly looking anywhere but at their table with stony disapproval.

“They’re not glutinic sensitive,” Sherlock murmured helpfully to John, seeing his confusion at the drama unfolding around them, “Those brooms are a Hoaxwood design; most Hoaxwood brooms are children’s training brooms, pre-programmed by glutinic energy to respond to specific commands and hover a few feet off the ground.  Hoaxwood also caters to non-glutinic sensitives with brooms that will fly higher, but the broom design is similar to the toys. It’s a bit like a bike with training wheels…or an adult sized tricycle.  I’ve been considering getting us some, but I’d prefer a custom-made design. That particular model I believe is called a ‘squib cycle’.”

Harry looked at the newcomers too with the same amount of caution he always gave large groups of loud people, but mostly he continued to play with his glasses and pet Sophie.

“A fine looking bird, there,” one of the women in the group commented towards them with a friendly smile towards Harry.  Harry ducked his head but Sherlock smiled back in such an un-Sherlock manner that John had a hard time not bursting out with laughter and ended up choking on his fire cream.

“Thank you,” this odd version of Sherlock answered, sounding perfectly sincere as he wacked a choking John on the back, “We thought Sherrinford could use a familiar.”

And if fortune had been on their side, that is how the day would have ended.  They would have finished their fire cream, given a friendly nod towards the nice strangers one table over while avoiding looking at the rather less friendly man and his son at the other table.  They would have gone home, probably never met the strangers again, and introduced Sophie to their flat before going to bed.  That is not how the rest of their day went.

They did finish their fire cream and Sherlock paid.  This time, John took more notice on the odd currency, asking questions and asking if they didn’t accept credit cards and feeling altogether rather as though he’d somehow gone on holiday abroad even though they hadn’t left London.  So Sherlock was paying, and John was doing maths in his head to try and figure out whether their fire creams had been reasonably priced or ridiculously expensive when Draco’s pet got away from him.

The pet was meant to be in a small, finely meshed cage, but, just as Harry kept petting Sophie, Draco seemed unable to resist playing with his own pet.  The pet was not an owl.  It was also, thankfully considering the boy’s previous interest, not a snake.  It was, in fact, a pure white kitten and when his father wasn’t looking Draco had managed to pull it free of its cage to play with it. 

John, Sherlock, and Harry were just standing up and making sure they had gathered all of their belongings when the tiny ball of fluff, alarmed by Sophie’s soft hooting, went from docile fluffy cuteness to a demonic ball of claws and teeth and tore away from Draco in a desperate streak.  Draco screamed, both in pain from his scratched hand and because his new kitten was running away.

John grabbed for it on instinct as it darted past his foot, managing to stop its flight but getting a handful of sharp claws for his trouble.

“Kitty!” Harry said, beaming at the demonic fluff ball clinging to John’s hand.

“Ow,” John said, and attempted to pull its claws out of his flesh so he could give it back to Draco.  Sophie was not helping as she watched from her cage, the look in her eyes very much the sort of look an owl might give a mouse. He managed it at last, in spite of Harry’s attempts to help and Sophie’s continued hooting.  “Here you go.”

“Babbitty!” Draco exclaimed, reaching out to reclaim his pet.  Mr. Malfoy gave them all a displeased look but probably would have let the incident go if Harry hadn’t decided, for once, to be sociable.  Draco said nothing more, but simply grabbed the cat and cuddled it to his chest.

“Thank you,” Harry told him sternly in just the tone John got on such occasions where Harry needed the reminder.  Unfortunately for all involved, Draco did not take the hint and offer his thanks to John.  Harry was not dissuaded, but came closer, repeating in again, “Thank you!”

“It’s fine,” John tried to tell Harry.  Draco, noticing at last that a boy his age was repeating ‘thank you’ at him, looked to his father to see how to deal with such an unprecedented situation.  Draco’s father had an unpleasant sneer on his face.

“Put that animal away, Draco, I told you not to let it out.”

“Thank you,” Harry repeated at Draco, obviously still expecting him to take the hint.

“It’s fine, Ha…”

“Sherrinford is perfectly right,” Sherlock intruded before John could finish, “We are trying to raise our son to be polite.”  And he looked pointedly at Mr. Malfoy.  The unpleasant look on Mr. Malfoy’s face darkened.

“The day my son goes around thanking Muggles is the day I disown him,” he said scathingly, “Now kindly take your mudblood offspring away before I show you exactly how inferior your magicless blood is!”

The fire cream shop was completely silent, even Sophie not uttering a sound, as though the entire universe was holding its breath, waiting to see what would happen next.  John felt something hot and cold run through him, something dangerous. 

“What did you call him?” he asked, his voice low and soft and deadly.  Sherlock pulled Harry backwards which was good, more than good, because if John was going to react the way he wanted to react then he didn’t want four year olds anywhere near.  It was just as well that Draco didn’t move or John might already haven had to drive his fist home.

“Not in my shop!” the shop owner cried, suddenly running between them, “I won’t have brawls in here!”

“You let that filth eat your food, you invited trouble,” Mr. Malfoy answered, pulling a stick from his robes and finally remembering his son enough to push him behind him.  Draco peaked around the back of his father’s robes, eyes wide.

“Hey now!” exclaimed one of the people at the other table with the Hoaxwood brooms, “All he asked for is a few manners; there’s no call for name calling!”

“Not in my shop!” the shop keeper exclaimed again, and with an annoyed growl Mr. Malfoy muttered what sounded to John like utter nonsense.  The stick in his hand sparked and suddenly the shopkeeper flew backwards.

“Hey!” John exclaimed, that electric hot feeling running beneath his skin exploding at the sight of this needless violence, and even before he realized he was doing it, his fist was flying into contact with Malfoy’s face.

Malfoy stumbled backwards, his eyes wide with shock, and somewhere behind John the people at the other table let out a cheer.

“You really shouldn’t anger him,” Sherlock told Malfoy in his matter-of-fact tone, “I’d choose him in a fight over a dozen fully trained aurors any day.”

With a snarl, Malfoy raised his hand and shouted at them, swishing his stick.

“ _Protego_ ,” Sherlock said, suddenly holding his own stick in front of them, and there was a bright flash and John felt something like a cool wind ruffle past him.  Then Sherlock started to move his stick again, saying, “ _Expelli_ …”

“ _Serpentesortia_!”  Malfoy was faster.  And from his stick there came a writhing mass of black things that tumbled to the ground before them, rolling and writhing and untangling itself to reveal no less than three serpents.  John stared in shock as a snake reared up and…

“ _Protego_!” it struck, glancing off something solid and real in the air before them, before darting away beneath a table.  Somewhere behind them, Harry screamed but John didn’t dare turn around to see, not when an enemy was still standing in front of them.  The room was full of the sound of panicking people, and Malfoy just watched a cruel smirk on his face.

He continued to smirk right up to the point when John bend down, grabbed the dazed snake off the floor by its neck, and seriously considered lobbing it in his direction.  If it weren’t for Draco hiding behind his father’s robes, he would have.  Instead he merely held it as a threat, his arm moving back as though getting ready to throw.  Malfoy flinched, the smirk falling right off his face.

And that’s when the aerial attack came.  Two of the people from the other table had mounted their brooms and one of them threw their bowl at Malfoy’s head.  Malfoy managed to bring his stick up and shattered the bowl in a spray of light, but he completely missed the presence of the second flyer, who simply swooped down, bowling him over.

Draco stared, open mouthed at his father tumbling over a chair while the second flyer dumped a pitcher of pumpkin juice over their heads.  John approached, serpent in hand, and Malfoy looked up at him, eyes settling first on the snake and then upon the deadly look in John’s eyes.  Above them, broomed flyers whooped and hollered.

John was ready for a fight.  What he was not ready for was Malfoy grabbing Draco and vanishing into thin air with a pop, leaving John alone in a room of panicking and flying people with a snake in his hand.  At least the snake seemed to have resigned itself to its position as it stopped wriggling aggressively and instead wrapped its tail around John’s arm.

“John!” Sherlock called, sounding as alarmed as John had ever heard him, “John, there’re snakes!”  John turned around.  Sherlock was standing on one of the tables, as were most everyone still in the shop though a few more had the presence of mind to mount their brooms to escape the menace on the floor.  The other two serpents were nowhere to be seen, which was rather more worrisome than if John had seen them poised to strike.  At least if he could see them, he could evade them. 

“Harry?” John asked, looking around wildly for the boy.  He wasn’t on the table with Sherlock.

“I’ve got the kid!” a man from one of the brooms called, and there was Harry perched on the broomstick and unexpectedly smiling.

“John!” Sherlock called again, “John, _protego_ , damn it!”  He threw the stick in John’s direction in desperation, completely missing what he was aiming for.  And then John saw the snake, right by his own foot, and he froze.  This snake wasn’t stunned like the one he was holding.  John froze.

Sophie dove.

When and how the owl got out of her cage, John never knew, but she dove with deadly and silent accuracy.  The snake never had a chance.

That was two snakes.  There was still a third.  John couldn’t see it, but he knew that Sherlock probably could.  Sherlock saw everything.

“Sherlock!” he shouted, “Where’s the third snake!”

Sherlock’s response was a noise rather like ‘eep’.  And then, at last, John saw the third snake.  This one wasn’t a threat to John.  It had climbed onto Sherlock’s table.

“Do you think the glutinic creation was endowed with the desire of its creator to damage those he conjured it against?” Sherlock asked, his voice oddly flat.  It was what Sherlock did when confronted with danger.  He deduced and deduced until his enemy was distracted into giving an opening.  The snake wasn’t going to be distracted though.  There was nothing John could do.  He went through everything he knew in his head about snake venom, his heart beating hard in his chest.

The snake reared its head.

Sophie was off with the first snake, not ready for another fatal swoop.  The snake was going to bite and there was nothing any of them could do.

“No!” Harry screamed from above their heads, “You don’t hurt my daddy!”  And the snake with a pop all the snakes vanished, including the one around John’s arm and the one Sophie was dissecting in the corner.  She let out a displeased hoot to be suddenly bereft of her prey.

John shuddered, suddenly realizing all at once that he had been holding a snake, that he had just been in a battle with a stick wielding maniac with Harry in the room.  And he called Sherlock reckless for taking Harry to non-violent crime scenes.

Sherlock slowly got off the table.  The man with Harry on the broom flew down, and Harry launched himself at Sherlock.  Sophie hooted, flying over to land on Sherlock’s shoulder, accompanied by the sound of ripping fabric where her talons grabbed for purchase.

“Thank you,” John said to the man with the broom.

“No problem,” said the man, “It felt good to stand up to one of those prejudiced bastards.  You’re a Muggle too, I take it?”

John frowned at him, still not sure about that term.  Sherlock walked over to him and Harry reached to grab John’s arm with a death grip, still clinging tightly to Sherlock with his other arm.

“I know it sounds demeaning,” another man said as he, too, landed his broom, “But we’re trying to reclaim it, you know, make the word our own.  I’m Patrick, by the way, Patrick Gardener.  I first learned about this crazy magic thing when my oldest got his Hogwarts letter.  Talk about a shock!”

“It’s really not all bad,” a woman said, “We can fly!  We even have our own quidditch team; Muggle Mounters.  Stupid name, I know but it’s growing on me!”

“Right.” John said.  He looked at Sherlock.  Sherlock did not look inclined to explain things like ‘quidditch’ or ‘Hogwarts’ or any of the rest.  He was still looking around the shop, assessing, arms clinging tightly to Harry.  “Sherlock?”

“I think you had better look at the server, John,” he said.  From across the room, there came a groan.

All in all, it was two more hours before they managed to get home.

So in the end, John really didn’t mind Sophie.  She did save him from a nasty bite at the very least, possibly even his life depending upon how deadly the snakes might have turned out to be.

He still left it to Sherlock to explain her to Mrs. Hudson.


	15. Chapter 15

“Sherlock,” John said, once the long day was finally over and Harry was fast asleep snuggled between the two, “Since when can you do magic?”  Sherlock didn’t bother to look up from his laptop but he did manage to answer in a gentle, low voice.

“Do you mean, since when can I manipulate glutinic energies?”

“Yes, fine, that.  The thing you did with the stick.”

“Hoaxwood doesn’t just make brooms.  And I could hardly play the role of a wizard and not have a working wand to show for it.  I had it custom made to not look like a toy.  It has its limitations of course; I can only cast three ‘spells’ at the moment and the wand has to be recharged after I use it ten times.  It’s also weak in the face of a glutinium sensitive’s attack; in fact the first shield I did was broken but our talismans were enough to absorb the energy.  I’m hoping to find a way to upgrade the wand soon; ten uses only is quite frankly ridiculous and I really want to expand on its abilities.  These sensitives have no imagination with their own capabilities!  We’ll have to make sure Sherry doesn’t fall prey to the same limitations.”

John considered all of this.  Sherlock continued doing whatever it was he was doing with his laptop.

“Why didn’t you get me a stick thing?” John asked at last, his voice deceptively calm.  Sherlock, detecting the danger within that tone, paused with his fingers over the keyboard.

“You’re meant to be a non-sensitive,” he said, after a moment, “Non-sensitives don’t have wands.”

“Non-sensitives don’t have brooms,” John pointed out, “But I’m still taking flying lessons with Patrick and Kate this weekend.”

“Non-sensitives don’t have glutinium energized brooms,” Sherlock corrected as he slowly resumed typing.

“Call them what you like, I still want to know why you get to have a wand and I don’t!”  His voice got louder for a moment and from the corner of the room Sophie hooted softly at him, her eyes shining like small moons in the dim light.  John eyed her warily, still wondering how it came about that the owl had to spend the night in their room.  It was distinctly creepy to glance over and see her eyes staring at them.

“Hush, John, you’re going to wake Sherry,” Sherlock admonished, “And you never seemed interested before in acquiring glutinic items.”

“Fine.  Sherlock.  I want a wand.  There, is that showing enough interest?”

“Fine.”

John tried to go to sleep.  Sherlock continued to mess with his laptop.  The owl continued to stare at them from across the room.  Harry made hissing noises in his sleep.

John had fallen asleep under worse conditions.  He slept.

The next day, he woke up to an empty bed and an equally empty owl stand.  He found all three missing persons downstairs in the experiment flat.  Sherlock had his medallion out and his wand, and he was talking to Harry and the owl who both looked on with intense interest.

“Of course, we’ll need to find a real snake to be certain,” Sherlock was saying as John walked in, “But for now we can…oh, John.  You’re awake.”

“What’s this about needing a real snake?” John asked with a resigned air as he reached over to ruffle Harry’s unruly hair.

“It’s something one of the non-sensitives said yesterday, after Harry sent away the snakes.  You heard Harry speaking, didn’t you?”

“Of course,” John answered, still not seeing what Harry’s phenomenal magical feat had to do with finding more snakes.

“Apparently, no one else did.  Take off your talisman and I’ll show you.”

“Right.  Take off the talisman we were told to never ever take off or experiment on.  The extremely old talisman that apparently protected us yesterday.  That one.”

“Yes, that one.  Take it off.”

With a sigh, John took his talisman off.  It came off quite easily even though the cord had felt very short around his neck before.

“Go on, Sherry,” Sherlock said to Harry, “Tell the snake hello.”  He was pointing at a picture of a cobra poised to strike.  Harry happily leaned over and spoke.  It sounded like a hiss.  Sherlock beamed at John.

“See?” he said.

“So he knows what sound a snake makes.  Ok?  Good job, Harry?”  Sherlock gave him the usual look of contempt when he thought John was missing the obvious again.

“Watch his lips, John, his lips!  Go on, Sherry.”

Yet again, Harry leaned over and hissed.  John obediently watched his lips.  Then once again Sherlock looked at him expectantly.

“Right,” said John.  He yawned.  “I need some breakfast.  Have you eaten yet, Harry?”

Harry considered this question carefully, his eyes glancing towards Sherlock in case the correct answer could be found there.

“Is food all you can think about!” Sherlock exclaimed in annoyance.  The owl and John both turned unimpressed glares on him.  Harry looked worried.  Sherlock looked back and forth between them and his shoulders slumped slightly.  “I mean, eating three balanced meals a day is very important for our health.  Perhaps this can wait until after breakfast.”

“Good boy,” said John, reaching over to stick one of Harry’s ‘good behavior’ stickers on Sherlock’s forehead.  Harry giggled.  John gave him one too.

Before Sherlock could decide how to respond to his sticker, there was a knock at the front door.

“Door, John,” Sherlock said, shoving his talisman back at him, before grabbing Harry up.  “If it’s Lestrade, tell him to check on the next door neighbor’s iguana.”  And that said, Sherlock bounded out of the flat and up the stairs to 221b.  The knock at the door came again.

“Are one of you boys going to get that?” Mrs. Hudson asked, sticking her head out of her own door, “Only my hairs still up in curlers.”

“I have it, Mrs. Hudson,” John assured her.  Then the doorbell rang.

With a sigh, John went to answer it.  For reasons unknown, Sophie decided that she needed to come too and swooped down to settle on his shoulder, her talons ripping holes into his top.  Deciding it was too early to care what people would think of the owl and resigned to his life, John opened the door.

It was not Lestrade waiting outside, or in fact anyone they knew.  There was a man of average height and build wearing nice but worn clothing and a nervous expression.  He glanced at Sophie but didn’t seem overly surprised that John had answered with an owl on his shoulder.

“Yes?” John asked politely, trying to decide if he was a client or a salesman or if he was dangerous.

“I was told there’s a nanny position at this address,” the man said, still looking nervous and slightly confused, as though he didn’t know why he was there himself, “And I was told to tell you my name is Mary?”

“Oh,” John said, “Right.”  Of course Mycroft hadn’t given up on sending them nannies.  John was silly to have hoped.  Still feeling a bit guarded, especially after the day before, John nonetheless stepped back and let the man come inside.

“If you’ll wait here, just a moment,” John told him, trying and somewhat failing to offer the man a smile.  Then he ran upstairs.  Sophie fluttered indignantly at the sudden movement and swooped away into the kitchen while John went searching for his phone.  He found it in the third place he looked inside Sherlock’s coat pocket.

“John,” Mycroft said on the second ring, “I take it the new nanny has arrived?”

“So you did send him, then?  And does this one actually have any credentials besides bodyguard?”

“He was quite a find, actually.  Good with a wand, was a soldier, but not quite so…military oriented as my last candidate.  He came very highly recommended.  And he’s agreed to work seven days a week, day and night if you request it of him.  All he asks in return is that he be given five days off every 22.33 days.  He’s also quite used to…eccentrics and he says he rather enjoys working with children.  Do try to not scare this one away.”

So with his presence confirmed, John reluctantly walked past the kitchen and the appetizing smells of food being made to go back down the stairs and allow the new Mary up.

“We’ll give you a trial period of three days,” John told him as he led him inside, “If you haven’t run screaming by then, and if Harry seems to like you, we’ll consider taking you on.”

“Thank you,” the man answered, still looking a bit confused.  John didn’t blame him; that’s how most people reacted to an encounter with Mycroft. 

Introducing the new nanny had become rather routine.  The nanny would arrive at the flat, tell them his or her name was Mary and that they had been assigned as a nanny.  Sherlock would look the person up and down, name every character flaw and reason why they are the last person suited to look after Harry, and nine times out of ten send them away.  Half those times John would go and fetch the person back before they could leave, scold Sherlock that being ‘too boring’ is in fact a plus in a nanny, and let them have the three day trial.  None of the nannies Mycroft had selected lasted longer than two days.  If they didn’t in fact turn out to be useless with children or to scare Harry just by their looming presence, they would turn out to have a strange aversion to being experimented on.

This man didn’t look like he’d be any different.  He followed John into the kitchen and then just stopped and stared at Harry with an almost frightened expression on his face.  He stared and he stared, to the point of being a bit creepy.  John tried to decide if the look meant he was actively afraid of children; that had been the case with one of the nannies Mycroft had sent.  She had lasted a record twenty-three minutes while Sherlock watched gleefully before John put the woman out of her misery and told her he didn’t think it was going to work out.  He’d never seen anyone so relieved to be sacked.  This look spoke of stories in this man’s past though, something disturbing.  It wasn’t a phobia.  John wasn’t sure what it was, or if it was the sort of look John wanted people to be giving Harry.  He thought that if Sherlock sent this one packing John might just let him go.

Sherlock was staring at him intently, not that the man had noticed since his eyes were still on Harry.  Harry seemed oblivious, whispering something to Sophie while pushing beans about his plate with a slice of apple.

“Harry?” whispered the man, and Harry turned his head at last to look at him.  There was a moment of quiet in the kitchen while everyone seemed to be studying each other.  Some toast popped up from the toaster.

“You’re not a pedo,” Sherlock announced after his scrutiny was finished, making the man start and turn his attention to the other people at last, “You aren’t showing any signs of arousal, and Mycroft’s background checks are very exact, and if you always behaved this way around children he never would have sent you.  This is something else.  It isn’t children…it’s a child.  A boy, this boy in particular.  He reminds you of a child you knew, perhaps a child you lost.  But no…you said his name.  It isn’t just a child you lost, and it isn’t the ridiculous hero worship the glutinium sensitives are prone to…no attention to the scar…you know him…you were a friend of his parents.  You have experience fighting; your muscles are well developed, the way you hold yourself, and of course Mycroft wouldn’t send someone who couldn’t handle threats.  You have been sick though…chronically ill…you have difficulty keeping up your weight or in keeping a job.  Your clothes are of good quality but threadbare, old, you have not been able to update your wardrobe in some time.  The fit is for a slightly larger man but they’re not second hand, if you had needed second hand clothes Mycroft would have outfitted you better than this.  These are your own clothes from years ago, before you lost the weight.  There’s something else…you have a secret.  It can’t be a horrible one or Mycroft wouldn’t send you…but you flinched when I said ‘horrible’.  There’s something…something I’m not seeing, something I don’t know enough to see…”

“Does this mean he’s staying?” John asked after Sherlock seemed to be done or at least his deduction had trailed off into inaudible mumbles.

“With a mystery like that hanging about him?” Sherlock asked, sounding aghast and delighted all at the same time, “Of course he’s staying!”

“Oh,” said the man, looking rather dazed and twice as confused as before, “Thank you?”

“Don’t mind him; he’s always like that,” John said, “I’m John Watson, by the way, I don’t know what Mycroft’s told you about us.  Come over here, Harry, and say hello to…er…are we sticking with Mary?”

“Actually, I’d prefer it if you called me Remus.  Remus Lupin.”  That was new.  All the other Marys had stuck with Mary as their name.  Perhaps it was a sign that this one really would be sticking around.  Harry slowly approached them, coming over to John’s side and half hiding behind him.

Remus smiled at him and held out a hand.

“Hello,” he said, “My name is Remus.  I knew your mum and dad.”

“I’m Sherrinford Holmes,” Harry answered, taking the hand but not letting go of John with his other hand.  Remus looked a bit surprised by that introduction and John watched warily.  Someone who knew his parents probably wouldn’t take kindly to the name change.  Remus didn’t stop smiling, though.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Sherrinford,” he said.  Harry ducked his head.

“Alright, Harry,” John said, “You can go finish your breakfast.”

To John’s surprise, instead of running back to the safety of his seat, Harry slowly unwound himself from John’s leg and approached Remus, his eyes looking him over in a manner strangely reminiscent of Sherlock.  John half expected Harry to suddenly start spouting out observations.

“Are you hungry, Mr. Remus?” Harry asked, “Dad…Daddy Sherlock said you lost too much weight.  You can eat my breakfast.”

John blinked, both at Harry’s new way of calling Sherlock and at his sudden desire to feed Remus.

“Mr. Remus can have his own food if he wants some,” Sherlock said before John could react further, “You eat your food and we’ll eat ours.”

And so all four of them, five if you counted Sophie, settled down to a surprisingly pleasant morning.

Then Sherlock got a case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Authors Note: To be perfectly and utterly honest, I had had every intention of making this the very last chapter of this story. As you've all probably noticed in the months that go by between updates, I've rather run out of steam for this story. But then I was writing this chapter, and I just couldn't feel a point of closure. Throwing in a new character and then saying bye to the story just felt wrong. And so this is not quite the end. But the end is coming. Though even when it is the end, I’m considering a sequel, probably skipping to his Hogwarts years…assuming he does go to Hogwarts. I suspect Sherlock might be opposed to sending him away, and John isn't likely to be impressed with all the subjects the school doesn't cover.


	16. Chapter 16

It was madness, utter madness.  They could hear screaming.  They could hear tears.

“We’re missing a case for this?”

Surprisingly, it wasn't Sherlock who said this.  It was John.

“It was a three,” Sherlock answered, “At most.”  The screaming grew louder the closer they came. 

“Are you ready for your friend’s birthday party?” Remus asked Harry with an attempt at joviality as he trailed after the three of them.  It might have been more convincing if he weren’t holding a gaudily wrapped parcel in front of himself like a shield.

This turned out to be a wise precaution.  A human guided missile swooped over them, cackling with laughter.  It was soon followed by a very small girl who was screaming furiously at the top of her young lungs.  Harry looked down at her warily from the safety of John’s arms.

The screaming girl finally noticed them and the screaming stopped abruptly.  She stared at them with wide eyes, then spun about and ran back the way she came.  She started screaming again, with words this time. 

“Mummy, mummy, he’s here, he’s here!”

Before they could follow, a shadow swooped over their heads.  John automatically ducked into a defensive position, bodily shielding Harry.  Remus reacted similarly, one hand warding off any possible attacks with the gift, the other holding up a wand.  No attacks came; just two identical boys riding on a single broom that looked far too big for them.

“Fred and George Weasley you get off your brother’s broom this instant!” screamed an irate Mrs. Weasley, before turning a kindly smile on them.  “Do come in; we’re so glad you came.  Ron will be so happy to see you.”

“Thank you for inviting us,” Sherlock said in his most charming voice.  John, Remus, and even Harry turned to give him identical looks of confusion and, in the case of John and Remus, suspicion.  Mrs. Weasley beamed.

“The birthday boy is just inside.  FRED AND GEORGE, WHAT DID I TELL YOU, GET DOWN BEFORE YOU BREAK YOUR NECKS!”  Brandishing her wand, Mrs. Weasley charged past them.  The four of them stood in the doorway, not quite stepping inside.

Inside turned out to be inside of one of the strangest houses any of them had ever seen. It didn’t look like it should be able to stand.  They could see no less than seven young children running around only some of which were familiar.  Neville seemed to be hiding under the table.  Susan was doing something with the little red headed girl and an unknown blond.  Three small red heads were chasing each other.  A slightly taller red head was shouting at them.

“Stop running, stop, I say, Mum put me in charge and I say stop!  Ginny, put down those scissors and leave Luna’s hair alone!”  No one was listening to him. 

None of the men seemed to want to be first through the door.  Nervously, John reminded himself that he had invaded Afghanistan.  He can face a five-year-old’s birthday party inside a magical house.  Telling himself this, he shifted Harry up in his arms to check on him.  Harry didn’t look too scared, yet.  He was watching the unfolding scene with wide, intent eyes.

“Well, Harry, this is it,” John told him, “Brace yourself.  If it gets too bad, we’ll take you out.  You just have to say the word.  All we want is for you to try playing with the other kids for a bit.  Ready?”

Harry didn’t look ready at all.  He looked over at Sherlock and then back towards Remus.  Remus attempted to give him a smile.  The smile looked a bit too toothy to be quite friendly.  Then Harry got a determined look on his face.

“I’m ready,” he said firmly, swinging his feet slightly as though to propel them forward.  They went inside.

It was like they had pressed the pause button.  The screaming stopped.  The running stopped.  It was so silent, they could clearly here the snip of a pair of scissors that sent a handful of long blond hair gently wafting towards the floor.  All eyes were turned to look at them.  All eyes were turned to look at Harry.

“Hello,” Sherlock said, smiling nicely towards all of them.  The eyes shifted from Harry to Sherlock. “My name is Sherlock Holmes.  This is Sherrinford, but you know him as Harry Potter.  I know you all want to see Sherry because grownups told you a story about him.  Well, I know another story about Harry Potter.  Do you want to hear it?”

The children stared at him.  It was beginning to feel like something out of a horror movie.  Any moment, the kid’s eyes were going to start glowing.  Sherlock didn’t look concerned.  He walked to the table that was laden with gifts and pulled away a chair.  He sat in it.  John, Remus, Harry, and the kids all stared at him.

“Well,” said Sherlock, “Don’t you all want to sit in a circle and hear my story about Harry Potter?”  He gave John and Remus a pointed look.

“Oh, right,” said John at last.  He pulled out a second chair, pulled it close, and sat down.  They both stared at Remus, who was staring at them, until Remus finally got the hint.  He dropped the gift on the table and grabbed a third chair.  The rest of the kids stared.

“I’m going to sit by Harry Potter!” One of the red heads announced.  There was a small stampede towards the places next to John and Harry, during which a pair of scissors very nearly accidentally stabbed one of the kids if Remus hadn't reflexively snatched them away.  There was pushing and shoving and shouting and tears.

“Mum said no shouting!  Mum said no fighting!” the slightly taller red head shouted into the chaos.  With a sigh, John put Harry into Sherlock’s lap.  Then he stood up to the full height of Captain John Watson and bellowed into the chaos.

“Attention!”

Everyone froze, which was quite a feat as some were balanced quite precariously in their attempts to shove, pull, and push their way into the favored position.

“Now that’s what I call magic,” Lupin whispered to Harry and Sherlock in the sudden silence.  Sherlock muttered ‘glutinic energy’.  Harry giggled.  The kids were looking at John now with uncertain expressions.  John knew he had to act fast before they decided not to listen anymore.

“Everyone line up!” Captain John ordered.  The older boys all hopped to it, grinning.  Some of the younger children looked confused, but when John started saying ‘good job’ to the ones standing the straightest and stillest, still in the persona of an army inspector, he soon had almost all of them trying to stand tall in a somewhat wavy attempt at a straight line.  Even Neville climbed out from under the table.  Harry seemed content to stay in Sherlock’s lap, though he wasn't trying to hide.

“Much better,” said John.  “Now, where’s the birthday boy?”

“Me, I’m Ron, Mr. Harry’s dad.  I’m five today!”  One of the red headed boys who they vaguely remembered from their first meeting waved his hand.

“Alright, Ron, I think you should get to sit here, next to Mr. Sherlock and Harry.  Ron jumped up and down.  The other kids started to look rebellious.  Before they could break formation and start fighting again, John barked, “Attention!”  He looked sternly at the tiny red-headed girl who was twisting out of formation to look at Ron and Harry.  Instead of bursting into tears, as one might expect when a grown man glares sternly at a three-year-old, she giggled.

“Amazing,” Remus whispered to Sherlock, “You’d think they’d be terrified of a strange man shouting at them.”

“No one finds John scary,” Sherlock answered back, his voice low and deep, “That’s why he’s so dangerous.”

John, meanwhile, was inspecting his ranks.  He stopped at the older boy who had been trying to control the madness.

“Are you in charge here, private?” John demanded.  The boy held his head up proudly.

“I am.  Mum left me in charge.  But no one will listen!”

“I see,” John answered, shaking his head sadly.  “Well, that won’t do.  What’s your name, private?”

“Percy…sir,” the boy answered

“Alright, troupes, listen up!  Percy here is going to clap his hands, and I want each of you to hop like a bunny.  Then when he claps his hands again, you will all freeze.  Percy is going to choose the best listeners to find a seat in the circle.  If you don’t listen to Percy, you won’t have a place to sit!  Ready?  Percy, clap your hands!”

Percy clapped his hands.  The kids stared at them.  Percy looked a bit defeated.  Then Neville started hopping.

“Hop, Ginny, he clapped, so you got to hop,” Ron told his baby sister.  Ginny, Susan, and the blond girl all started hopping.  The rest of the boys started leaping, trying to out-do each other.  Percy clapped his hands again.  Even he looked surprised when most of the children froze, trying to hold still in awkward positions.

“Very good,” John said, before turning to Percy, “So who listened best?  Who gets to sit down first?”

“Oh…um…” the kids all tried to look pleadingly at him without moving.

“Ginny, I think,” he said at last, and the little girl ran up to hug her brother happily before choosing to sit next to Ron on the floor.  There was a collective sigh of relief that she hadn't chosen the other prime spot next to Sherlock and Harry.  With John’s encouragement, Percy clapped his hands again.  This time everyone started to hop right away.  Percy chose Neville next, who did sit next to Sherlock and Harry.  One by one, each child was allowed to sit.  Finally, when the last two had sat down in a disappointing position across from Sherlock and Harry, John pulled up a chair for Percy so he could sit with the other adults.

“Now,” Sherlock announced, “Sherry and I have a story for you.  It’s about Harry Potter.”

“I know all about Harry Potter,” said Ron loudly, “He…”

Percy clapped his hands, loudly.  The children all jumped.  Some of them made hopping motions without getting up.  Percy clapped his hands again.

“Very good,” said John.

“Now,” said Sherlock, “You all have to be very quiet and listen with your ears, or you won’t be able to hear the story.”

They were silent.  Several of the children cupped their ears to show how good they were at listening.

“Once upon a time,” said Sherlock, “There lived a boy named Harry Potter.  He was very famous.  Everyone loved Harry Potter.  They all stared at him.  They stared at him and stared, and that was scary.  It’s not fun when everyone stares at you.  So Harry Potter hid his face.

For a long time, Harry lived with his aunt and his uncle.  But his aunt and uncle were wicked monsters.  So Harry left to live with me and John.  And still everywhere he went, people stared at him and stared at him.  He didn't like it.

So Harry’s new dads decide to call him Sherrinford.  Sherrinford isn't famous like Harry Potter.  No one stares at Sherrinford.  Then little Sherry is happy.  So from that day on, Harry Potter became Sherrinford Holmes.  And we all lived happily ever after.  The end.”

The kids considered this story.

“But Mr. Sherlock,” said one of the red head boys, “Why doesn't Harry Potter want to be Harry Potter?  If I were Harry Potter, I’d want everyone to know.”

“Why did Harry Potter live with monsters?” Ginny asked.

“I’ll be your friend, Sherry,” Ron promised Harry, “I won’t stare or anything.”

Before Sherlock could answer, or Harry for that matter, and before Percy could decide to clap his hands again as the kids all started talking again and scooting closer to Sherlock’s chair, the door swung open.

“I've got the pintata,” said the man in the doorway, holding up something that certainly started its life as a piñata donkey, but probably wasn't quite so sparkly or taped to begin with.  The man noticed Sherlock, John, and Remus.  “Oh, hello, I’m Ron’s dad.  Is that Harry Potter?”

“His name is Sherry,” a myriad of young voices all proclaimed in surprising harmony.  Mr. Weasley blinked at them.

“Oh,” he said, then, “Are you really Muggles?  I've been hoping to meet you!  I collect plugs, you know.  I…Lupin, is that you?”

“Yes,” answered Remus.

“I thought you said your name was Remus,” said Sherlock, “Or was it Mary?”

“It’s Remus Lupin.”  John sighed at Sherlock’s continued confusion when it came to names.  No wonder Harry had gotten stuck with the horrible name ‘Sherry’.

“Isn't it…er…a problem night?” asked Mr. Weasley.  Sherlock perked up, eager for any new information on the mystery that was their nanny.  He still hadn't quite figured out why Remus said he was starting his monthly vacation time that month.

“Tomorrow, actually,” Remus answered, looking nervous and a bit pale.

“Pintata!” screamed Ron, “Pintata, pintata, pintata!”

Finally realizing he was about to be mobbed by young children if he didn't start paying attention to them, Mr. Weasley led the way to the yard.

“Go on, Sherry,” Sherlock instructed, setting Harry on the ground, “Are you ready to go with Neville and Susan and Ron to play with the piñata?”

“Come on, Sherry, I’ll show you how you hit it!” Ron said, grabbing Harry’s hand and pulling.  For one moment, Harry resisted.  Sherlock, John, and Remus all watched closely, ready for tears and shouts.

Then Harry stopped resisting.

“Hello, Sherry,” they heard Neville say as he joined them, “I don’t like staring either.”

“I won’t stare, Sherry, I just want to play,” said Ron, “Do you want to play?”

“Yes,” said Harry, quite clearly.  The three men at the doorway let out a collective breath.  They had all been wary of taking Harry to the birthday party, knowing how wild the other kids would be.  They had talked it over with Dr. Sundberg.  Harry couldn't be shielded from other kids forever, had been Dr. Sundberg’s reply.  He thought Harry was ready, but that they should be ready to intervene if it got to be too much.  Perhaps it was going to turn out alright.

Then they heard Harry’s voice again, loud and full of horror.  “Why are they hitting the pintata?!”

All in all, they still called Ron’s birthday party a success.

That evening, after Harry proudly put the stars on his chart and told Sophie all about the birthday party, and then had gone to bed with Sophie guarding him from her night stand, Remus took his leave.

“It must have something to do with the full moon,” Sherlock mumbled to himself, staring hard at the man as he started nervously for the door, “What would make a person ill every full moon?”

“Seriously?” John asked, not in disbelief at this sudden suggestion that Remus might be an actual werewolf so much as in disbelief that Sherlock didn’t instantly make the connection.  “You need to stop deleting things.”

“What?” Sherlock asked, still staring intently at a very uncomfortable Remus.  Then Sherlock’s phone chirped.  Sherlock left off staring intently so that he could dive for his phone.

“Yes!  Come along, John!”

“What?  Sherlock, what are you talking about?”

“The case!  The case, John, the case!”

“What, you mean the case that was a three?  The case you said we weren't taking?”

“A nine, John, definitely a nine!  It wasn't paint, you see, right, it was lipstick!  We must get to the studio!”

“Now?  And what about Harry?  We can’t just leave him alone, Sherlock, the nanny’s already left.”

“But…” Sherlock looked around in confusion to see that Remus had indeed taken the opportunity to slip out the door to wherever he went for full moons.  And then the door opened again, and a woman stepped in.  She was tall, with short blond hair, and she looked entirely calm and unperturbed to be walking into a strangers house and finding said strangers stomping his feet while standing on top of the settee.

“Er…hello?” said John, wondering vaguely if she might be an assassin sent to shoot them and whether John shouldn't be taking action to prevent this.  She didn’t look like a client.

 “I was told to say I’m the replacement Mary,” she answered, holding her arms out in a non-threatening position…which strangely enough made her seem more dangerous because she knew to do that in the first place. “I’m told I will be watching a kid while your usual nanny is…indisposed.”

“Of course you are,” John answered with a sigh while Sherlock silently looked her up and down, “What’s your name then?”

“Mary.”

“Of course it is.”

One confirmation from Mycroft later and Mary situated herself into Remus’s vacant room in 221C.  John still didn’t want to go look at the studio.

“It’s late, and how do you think Harry will feel if he wakes up tomorrow all alone except for Mrs. Hudson and a stranger?”

“But, a nine…” Sherlock tried to say.

“Look in your remember book, Sherlock, and then tell me you still need to go and you can go.”

With a frustrated sigh, Sherlock nonetheless went over and collected a notebook.  It was Harry who had named it the ‘remember book’ after Sherlock told him it was to help him remember.  Inside were various pictures and drawings.  They were pictures of them all being a family, to remind Sherlock when he needed reminding what being a family meant, whenever he needed reminding.  When he was about to do something life threatening.  When he was about to rush out and leave Harry behind.

Sherlock stared into the book.  He turned his head towards Harry’s room where Harry was sleeping soundly.  Then with a frustrated growl, Sherlock slammed the book shut.

“It will be better in daylight anyway,” he growled, “First think in the morning.”

Sherlock stayed up a bit, researching he said.  Later, John noticed there were new pictures in the book taken at the birthday party.  John went to bed but lay awake for a long while.  It had been a long day, and the sudden appearance of Mary had thrown him a bit.  She didn’t seem quite safe.  Also, she was much prettier than any of the other Marys had been.  There was definitely danger there.

John lived for danger.  In the end, he slept.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter deals with Reichenbach (aka the roof scene at the end of season 2) and all that that entails. Though I promise it isn't nearly as dark as the actual episode.

“That’s Harry Potter.”

“You’re powers of observation astound as usual, Anderson.  And as usual, your research is lacking.  His name is Sherrinford Holmes.”

Anderson didn’t seem to hear a word Sherlock said.  He was staring at Harry, his eyes wide with shock, almost awe.  It was enough to make John want to pull Harry behind him.  The three of them had been out for a stroll when Lestrade’s call had come, and since he assured them there was nothing dangerous or disturbing in the building, except in the specific room where the murder took place, they had agreed to stop by.  John called Mary to meet them, just in case, though he didn’t think Harry was quite ready to be left alone in her care.  Or perhaps John just wasn’t ready.  Sherlock had been fairly quiet after he assessed her; he hadn’t condemned her outright but he hadn’t exactly given his blessing either.

“That’s Harry Potter.  What’s he doing with _you_?”

“I’m Sherry Watson Holmes.”

It made both John and Sherlock smile to hear Harry standing up for himself.  Anderson didn’t notice.  He just opened and closed his mouth a few more times before continuing his own thought process out loud.

“You have Harry Potter.  You…you’re…you’re all wizards?  That explains so much!  All that talk about ‘deducing’ and ‘using your brain’ and it’s all a trick, isn’t it?  A magic trick!  How did you get the boy who lived?  Do…does the ministry know you have him?  Surely they wouldn’t let a psycho like you…”

“My daddy’s not a psycho!”

“Ow!”

John’s face warred between grinning and looking stern.  “Harry.  What did we say about kicking?”

“Aim higher?”

_Sigh_.  “Sherlock, what did we say about telling our…son how to attack people?”  He still wasn’t comfortable about being Harry’s dad.  He felt like a thief.  Dr. Sundberg had discussed the entire issue with all three of them.  In the end Harry grasped his changing circumstances quite well.  ‘I have my old daddy and mummy, and now my new daddies.’  Dr. Sundberg thought this was a positive development.  And at this point, with Harry embracing the new titles so enthusiastically, it would have been cruel to take them back.  A private talk with the therapist left John feeling slightly more at ease at being a parent, despite his reservations.

Now if only Harry’s second parent would behave like a parent and not a second child.

“But John, this was obviously a case of defense!”

“Sticks and stones, Sherlock.  Sticks and stones.”

“Good idea.  Sherry, we’ll practice making use of your surroundings in our next lesson.” 

A part of John wanted to knock his head against a wall.  Another part thought it would be better to knock _Sherlock’s_ head against a wall.  A secret, but still significant third part of John agreed that Harry should be taught how to use his environment as part of self-defense.  Meanwhile, Anderson continued to stare and gibber in horror.

“You…you’re going to train him into being a death eater!  Who let you have him!  Did you steal him?!”

They were gathering a crowd of investigators.  Men and women who tried to look at them without looking at them.  Some were edging away from Anderson.  A few were edging towards him, as though afraid they might have to defend these civilians from the obviously deranged man.  John considered taking Harry outside to wait.  Sherlock put a hand to his head, as though Anderson were giving him a headache.

“One, I’m not ‘magical’ as you would put it.  I’m not sensitive to glutinic energy.  So why would I join a cult of blood purists who despise my very existence?  Two, _Sherrinford_ came to me because I’m his closest living relative who isn’t criminal.  We’re cousins.”  The ‘you idiot’ wasn’t said out loud but it was very strongly implied.

“You…but…you…you can’t be!”

“Obviously I can, now shut up, you’re draining my brain cells.”

“You seriously expect us to believe that you are Harry Potter’s cousin!”

“I’m going to ignore you now.”  In fact, he considered just leaving.  He didn’t actually need Anderson to show him the way.  Which was a good thing as Anderson was obviously not about to do it.

“There’s no way it’s possible!  I mean, you’re old enough to be his father!”

Sherlock sighed, his hand now massaging his forehead.  Around him he saw other people watching but trying not to be noticeable.  It was a pathetic display of high morals meeting blatant curiosity and feeling all those eyes on him without seeing them was getting under Sherlock’s skin.

“Alright,” he said loudly, to the room at large, until all the eyes were looking at him properly.  Much better.  “I’m going to explain this only once, so do try to grasp what I’m saying in your tiny little minds.  I am, in terms of genetic relationships, Sherrinford’s cousin.  Not his father, not his uncle, and not once or twice removed.  When our grandfather was young, quite young I’d imagine, he had an illegitimate son; my father.  Later, by at least twenty years, my grandfather married and had more children with his wife.  One of those is Sherry’s mother.  So, his son and his daughter are obviously siblings, even if they are at least twenty years apart, making us, their children, cousins.”

The explanation left out, of course, the fact that Sherlock’s father and the man who raised him were not, in fact, the same person, but these people hardly needed to know that.

“Now, where’s this dead body I was asked to see?”  Anderson continued to gape but another person on forensics helpfully pointed Sherlock in the right direction and he swept up the stairs, leaving Harry to John.  John prudently took Harry back outside.  A slightly chilly wind was still better to face than another Harry Potter enthusiast.  Anderson was left to gibber in a corner alone.

“Mary!”  John looked up at Harry’s shout.  There she was, as beautiful as always.  Which was not a thought a married man should be having about the nanny.  Then again, in all ways that mattered, John was not married.  Slavery and forced marriages were, as far as he knew, still illegal in the UK.  He had a civil partner and he had a son.  He had made no vows, except to himself, and those were more along the lines of ‘protect them.  Love them.’  Not ‘never look at another woman again’.  Still, she was the nanny!  Probably in bad taste to look at her that way.

Harry, unburdened by such thoughts, waved at her cheerfully as she joined them by the entrance to the building.

“Hello Harry.  John.  Is Harry going with me or is this a case of the more the merrier?”

“We don’t know, yet,” John answered.  “Sherlock’s looking at the scene now.”  Sherlock could very well come storming out after five seconds, declaring the entire thing obvious and dull, or he could take an hour or it could be a full blown investigation complete with rooftop chases at midnight and days of brooding and experiments.  One never knew with Sherlock.

As it turned out, John and Harry chatted with Mary about brooms for the next five minutes when a very harassed looking woman came out to say Sherlock was asking for John and could he please join him?

Harry was perfectly content to stay with Mary while John went.  It was John who was nervous about the separation.  Still, it was Mycroft who hired her, so in the end he followed the woman back into the house.  Anderson had left off mumbling about death eaters and Harry Potter and was now sitting in a corner with a hot drink and a blanket thrown over his shoulders.

Up the stairs, John finds Sherlock knocking through a wall with a poker while an unfortunate officer looked on in horror.  The wall turned out to be a false wall built in front of the real one.  Behind it, there was a painting of a waterfall.

One month later, John stood on the pavement and looked up at Sherlock standing on the roof.

“It’s all a magic trick,” Sherlock said.  And then he jumped.

One day later, John is escorted the safe house where Harry had been moved during Moriarty’s trial.  As far as John knew, no one had told Harry yet.  He didn’t know if he could tell him.  He had to tell him.  Four years old, and he had already lost his parents, been left with an abusive family, and now that he was finally settling, finally sleeping in his own bed and not the closet, finally learning to trust family again, John was going to have to tell him that his new Daddy Sherlock was gone.

A magic trick.  What had Sherlock even been trying to tell him?  What could he tell Harry. 

He could hear Harry in the next room.  He was giggling.  And he heard another voice.  A deep and familiar voice, and suddenly he couldn’t breathe because it wasn’t true, he knew it wasn’t, he was going to open the door and be disappointed and the world would go on being wrong and empty.  It was just him and Harry left.  He knew that.  He had to be stronger than this.  Finally, he opened the door.  It was the hardest thing he had ever done in his entire life, and that included Afghanastan, and feeling for a pulse on a fallen body while its eyes stared at him devoid of light.

Those eyes were not devoid of light now.

“You bastard!” John screamed, all the emotions that had been drowning him suddenly swallowed away leaving a big void of empty feelings that quickly filled with a tumultuous mixture of rage and joy and relief and confusion and fury.

“Not in front of Sherry, John,” Sherlock answered.  He still had a cut on his forehead.  It hadn’t been completely fake.  Somehow, John lost his feet and found himself sitting down.

“You…you…”

“Daddy John!” Harry called, smiling beautifully.  “You came!  Daddy Sherlock said you were coming but you took forever and ever and he says we are going on an adventure and we will all be together!”

“I did try to tell you,” Sherlock mumbled, attempting to appear completely unconcerned with the way John’s eyes had filled up with emotion until he had to blink away tears.  “I said it was a magic trick.  And you know how I feel about the word ‘magic’.”

“Glutininium,” Harry said, stumbling a bit over the unfamiliar syllables. “Are you sad, Daddy John?  Why are you crying?”

“Not sad,” John answered, holding out his arms so the little boy could throw himself into them like he clearly wanted to.  “Never sad.”

Somehow he stumbled to his feet with Harry still in his arms.  Despite still being small and light for his age, a four year old boy was still no easy matter to pick up.  John managed anyway, and then stumbled towards the apparition that had haunted these last hours.  Sherlock looked rather worried as they moved towards him, as he should be, John thought.  He probably deserved a punch to his face after making John watch that as he did.  What he got was an arm thrown desperately around him, Harry squished between them as John pulled his family close.  Even Sophie joined them, swooping down to land on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“I had to jump,” Sherlock said, his lips by John’s ear.  “They were watching.  They had to see me jump.”

“And now?”

“Now…I was going to go after them.  They went after my family.  They went after you.  I was going to…Moriarty is gone, but his network is still there.  I was going to tear it down, strand by strand, puzzle by puzzle, until it was burned away.”

“You were going to leave us,” John answered.  “You were going to leave us and play his games and run around solving crimes without me.  Without us.”

“Yes.”

Sherlock could not possibly have understood how sharp that word could be, or surely he’d never have let it fall from his lips.

“But I couldn’t.  I…the stupid Remember Book and…your face and…it shouldn’t have mattered because it needed to be done but it did and…Mycroft always said caring wasn’t an advantage.  I hate proving him right.”

“Well, good thing then that you proved him wrong,” John answered.  “So now what?  We go home?”

“No.  We can’t, not yet.  I told you, they were going to kill you if I didn’t jump, and they’re still there.”

“Wait…what?  You said they went after us, you didn’t say…”

“No dying,” a high pitched voice ordered from between them.  “Rule five.”

“Rule five is that I’m supposed to call you Harry,” Sherlock answered, his voice revealing his utter confusion.

“Rule five two,” Harry decided.  “No dying.”

“How about we make that rule 5B,” John suggested.

“You are both being ridiculous,” Sherlock answered.  Slowly, gently, he pulled out of John’s arms and guided them to the sofa where they could sit in a huddle but still have some breathing space to themselves.

“So where are we going?” John asked.  “Are we just staying here until it’s safe?”

“No,” Sherlock answered.  “We’re moving to a safe house outside of the country while Mycroft’s people go after the web.  Of course they aren’t me, but if he sends out enough of them they might make up for it.  We’ll be back in a year.  Maybe two.”

“…two years.  Living away from home.  While all our friends think you’re dead.  While Greg and Mrs. Hudson and the Bones and the Weasleys and the Longbottoms think you’re dead.  And what are they going to think about me and Harry?  Are we supposed to play dead too?”

“Of course not.  You’re overcome by grief and moved away to deal with it.”

“…No.  No, we aren’t doing that to all our friends.  There has to be another way.”

“There was another way.  It involved me playing dead for a year or two while I took down Moriarty’s web and you and Sherry stayed safe in London.”

“No dying,” Harry interjected yet again, his voice stern.  Sophie hooted softly as though to agree.

“Until the snipers are taken care of then?” Sherlock suggested.  John, despite a very deep desire to stomp his foot as if he were the one who was four years old and scream at Sherlock until he understood how horrible it had been to watch him jump, how horrible it would be for their friends if they let it play out like Sherlock suggested, had to acknowledge that Sherlock did have a point.  No one else was going to die because of Moriarty.  He wasn’t going to win.

“So, where are we going?” John asked.  “Just for a short while, mind you.  I’ll give you a month, and you better have things sorted by then.”

“My grandmother’s house,” Sherlock answered.  “She’s excited to meet you and Sherry; you’ll be lucky if she lets us go after one month.”  He was grinning gleefully and obviously fully convinced that he had won the argument and that everything was now fine.  John most definitely was going to inform him, preferably when Harry was no longer snuggled between them, exactly why his choice to pretend to kill himself was most definitely not ‘fine’.  But for the moment, he was slightly distracted.

“Your grandmother?!”

“I admit her house may be a bit boring,” Sherlock went on, “But it does have bees.  And there’s a glutinic society nearby, though I only recently learned to recognize it for what it is; I believe the local flora is popular in glutinic chemistry.  How’s your French?”

“French?”  It rather showed that, despite Sherlock’s easy demeanor, he was still rather unsettled himself as he didn’t even roll his eyes at the way John was simply repeating everything he said.

“Mamie doesn’t know much English,” he explained.

“Are we going home?” Harry asked suddenly, his voice startling as they had thought he had been falling asleep.  Sherlock looked slightly perturbed; how to explain to a four year old that he was about to be uprooted yet again?  So it was John who leaned over him to answer, his voice gentle and his lips smiling.

“We are home.  We’re together, so we’re home.  No matter where we live.”

The End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am going to officially declare this story finished. Yes, I know there are loose ends that I didn’t explore. You can probably assume that Remus joins them, probably Mary as well. Is she the Mary from the show? Possibly. Is she going to double cross them? Possibly. You can also probably assume that trouble will find them, no matter Sherlock’s intentions to stay out of the dismantling of the web. How long do they have to stay away? I don’t know. Where did a grandmother suddenly pop up from? From virtue of this being an AU; Sherlock’s parents may or may not be alive but I’ve given him a living grandmother. I realize she’d have to be quite old, but then again, perhaps she’s a grandmother to Sherlock in the same sense that Mrs. Hudson is a ‘grandmother’ to Harry, so perhaps she isn’t so old. Or maybe she’s just aged well. Will Sherlock realize Sirius is innocent and free him long before Harry starts school? Maybe. Do they all live more or less happily as a family despite the dangers and arguments? Most definitely. I hope you’ve enjoyed the story as it’s written. I may even visit the story from time to time for quick one-shots and answer some of these questions. In fact, I’ve already written one, featuring almost eleven year old Harry. But I won’t be writing more here. This is The End.


End file.
